The following morning, I woke in a calmer state of mind than when I’d gone to bed the previous night. Rolling over in a sleeping bag Perrault provided, I settled on my back and stared up at a vaulted ceiling high above me. If you took away the grime and grunge of seventy odd years of abandonment, and squinted, just so, you could see the beauty in the flaking paint and damage. Almost.
Turning to the left, I discovered Emma was awake. Sitting cross-legged on her sleeping bag, she was writing in her travel journal. I wondered idly what she could possibly be writing. If she was recording the events of the past few days, who the hell would believe her? It would be a travel diary like no other.
Seeing my eyes were open Emma closed the journal and smiled. “Are you feeling better this morning?”
