Pieces of midnight ramblings, hope you like it-- it goes along with this.
She was a pretty little thing. Happy and smiling, just beginning to form the sounds that eventually would become words, although now it was all gibberish, gurgles and squeals of delight. The simplest things, a cool summer breeze, sent her into spiraling, unbridled joy at the fresh, earthy smell carried on the wind. It calmed her, too, as she drifted off to sleep in her Papa’s arms, blissfully unaware of the dangers the future held.
Elisesofia Petlykov ran. She ran through dark, empty streets, her cloak billowed behind her, the hood drawn tightly around her face. Silent, but urgent, like a street cat, chasing its next meal. She did not look back. Only forward, searching for the number on the door of the safehouse. 4498. She had memorized it years ago, as a child—but had never once imagined this day would occur. All these houses, silent, each exactly like the next: dark, dirty, windows locked and curtains, usually just a black cloth, closed to block any light—from the inside or out.