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longed for before vanished. All of the memories except for the
ones of them. The memories of them still remain in my head,
somehow. I look at the doll, I look at the tree and at the fog,
and I cannot recall anything but the memory of them; their
faces, their teary eyes, their frown of sorrow, and the
shrouded man behind them, the man with the cloak as dark as
night, but with eyes as bright as stars. I see their tears, and his
smile; I see their defeat and his victory. He smiles, but his
smile is cold and dread. Then I suddenly notice that he is no
longer in that memory but in front of me. I try running, but I
don’t seem to advance. He floats after me. I keep running. He
keeps floating. Finally, he corners me, and I am afraid to look
at him but I do it anyways. I see his smile and his eyes, those
brilliantly blinding eyes, and it finally comes to me that I have
died.

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