My head has been down as I walk through this new world with such an inquisitive young soul. Her gaze is often to the sky, and today we were rewarded with our first living creature in a while. A butterfly. She was lost in its beauty. The wings fluttered past her bright eyes and this wreck of a world fell away. It reminded me of Hugo's Vere Novo. Reciting poetry in this devastated world felt cathartic.
I told her that she has so much in common with this beautiful winged creature. Butterflies start as so much less and make themselves something more.
Perhaps if either of us had any tears, we would have cried.
I thought I saw one of those small drones pass over us today. We were picking berries and watching out for more butterflies when I thought I caught a glimpse of the damned thing.
I made her promise: No matter what happens, if they catch you, you must not trust them—not ever.
These are difficult days and nights. It's slow traveling off the roads, and we're on each other's nerves now. She observed that "the other people from the Black Armory were nicer." I snapped at her, but… she's right. At least these days, anyway.
The barrage of questions continues. She wants to know why she's special. Why we needed her here. Where she comes from. I still can't muster up the answers. I find it easier to bury my face in this journal or pretend to be asleep than to face her questions. We are still quite a ways from the shore.
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