She scurried through the hallway. Each step that fell, it was quicker than the former. To everyone, she seemed a mad woman. And maybe she was. People run from people. They run from knives, blades, weapons, beasts and shrouds. But she wasn't really running from any of those. Her chaser were the soft memories. Flesh upon flesh, something that teared her heart then mended it along. It made her cry just to tell her everything was OK. Where was he? Who was he? Was he only but a horribly sweet memory that chased her far and wide? Or was it something more?