It was a red-haired girl, her features delicate, often carrying herself with a jaunty, prideful lift of her chin, freckles playing across her dainty nose. She always seemed to be clad in a light blue dress. No - she only had that one dress, which she wore when she ran away from home.
Her name was... Riley? Bartlett couldn't quite recall as he didn't often call her by her name. But he vaguely remembered that, on those cold nights, her body was warmer than the flames licking in the fireplace. Sometimes, she would lay in the curve of his arm, her hand resting on his leg, spinning him tales of devils and hell. (Refer to Decameron)
...
"Hey, tell me, what's she to you?" The woman in front of him asked, a sparkle in her eyes, interrupting Bartlett's wayward thoughts.
"Who?"
"The name you kept calling out while you were unconscious."
"Oh, I don't know her." He answered expressionlessly.
