A girl ran away from home and entered into the meadow of cold and frozen lavender fields. The air was cold but the girl was flustered like fire and often a little sad, so she came crying and running. She was fast at fourteen. Her dress was made out of cloth wrappings, sewed together sporadically, colorful once but now rather dull. It was passed down from when her mother was fourteen.
There were blue skies, blue grass, and blue tears running everywhere in the world, at least in the eyes of the girl, whose name was Sarah.
Running over stones and crossing the brook, she made her way to the outskirt of the village, the meadow, the precious refuge where all little girls, and even some big ones, go when needing a solitary blanket.
The little refugee sat down in the cold field covering her face in her hands. She wiped her face and looked up at the sun.
While looking about her she noticed not the calm purple fields of dying grey, nor the cloudy swirly sky, nor the little bird twitting by the mountain, nor the lake in the distance, nor even the little houses far away, but she noticed the boy across from her, laying down with his face staring up at the sky.
