I arose from my bed (though my legs clearly were not eager to once again bear my weight) and made my way to the landing door. I was weary and cold and still less than confident of my perceptions, but even with these being the case, my curiosity still had the power to compel me – just as it had on that night when I encountered the wolf.

Through the floor below I had heard sobbing that had mirrored my own. So perfect of a reflection it was that it had stopped when mine had stopped. Had the girl downstairs been weeping as I had wept? Did she feel the same confusion and frustration at the world that I had been feeling? I did not know if I had the courage to knock upon her door, or even the strength to once again attempt those treacherous stairs, but yet in spite of this, my feet and legs propelled me, stumbling, forward.

She was there on the other side of my door when I flung it open, hand raised as if only a second from knocking, eyes and cheeks blotchy and tear-stained. We both gasped. She jumped; my legs tried, but collapsed and left me lying upon the floor instead – a rumpled heap of human being. She stammered out a string of apologies. Her accent was rough and home-spun. Her hands clenched and twisted the fabric of her plain white dress with fret.

She was a blessing, it turned out. She helped me to my feet; she got me back to my bed. She even managed to close the stuck window, though I’m not certain how – her arms looked so thin and frail, but I recall seeing the muscles under her skin bulge and ripple as she pulled it shut.

“I heard you crying,” she said.

“I heard you crying as well,” I said in response, too exhausted to even sit up in the bed.

“If we hadn’a heard each other,” she pondered, “I wonder if maybe we’d never’a stopped.”