Agnes
After the world went dark, I had strange dreams. I dreamed that I was running through a pitch black forest, stumbling over roots and fallen logs. I dreamed that my throat was raw and cracked from screaming, but I kept calling out her name anyway.
“Isabella!” I cried, branches and vines whipping at my face. “Isabella, where are you?!”
Suddenly, I came upon a little girl, around seven years old, standing by herself at the edge of a ravine. She was crying, her face buried in her hands.
“Isabella,” I breathed, scooping her up. She nuzzled against me, holding me tight. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew it was her.
But then the wolves came. They crashed out of the underbrush, dozens of them, snarling and howling. They chased us through the forest, nipping at my heels.
