In the deep oceans that flowed in her eyes, lived therein not grief but buckets of sorrows. Her constantly patient heart going all wild with the agony that had sparked up, her usual bland expressions, blank face and dimly lit heart, echoed his name on and on as she hugged her pillow and looked in the wide sky above. And every lonely star, in every nook, that had lost its light, reminded her of herself. She was lost. Not once, not twice, but on every turn. She was a but a lost bat, fluttering its wings through the sunshine, in the morning where she didn’t belong.