A drop of tears ran down her cheek. She was frozen, and only her heart accelerated. Her warrior, her light, was a phrase her mother often used at night as she sang Luiza to sleep. It was a vague memory from a long time ago in her dear ol' home.
They had small bedrooms with a very thin mattress and cheap linen. The nights in Appleton were windy and cold, so her mother often hugged her while gently massaging her scalp. Her long finger caressed her head as she spoke, "My warrior, my light."
"Ah, I should not cry in broad daylight." She blinked her eyes and tried to suppress her melancholy. She took out her handkerchief and wiped her tears.
She once again looked at the journal, and then, in her translation, it was the very first page of an almost hundred-page diary. There was still so much more to be uncovered, so she patted her cheeks; she could break down early on!
