by Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik
I took the first step. Then the second. And then the third. It was somehow not as significant as I thought, and soon, I was at the other side of the bridge. I continued through the narrow passageways and alleys of the city until I came to a much more open, grander part of Paris. I felt somehow I must have been close even though I didn’t know where I was going. I looked forward, I could see almost nothing ahead of myself through the thick snow which pelted to the earth. The darkness itself was almost blinding and the desperation in my own imagination. Camille. Dead. That really did make it hard for me to see more than an inch in front of me. I continued to follow the streets but soon realised that evergreen trees started to pop up on the landscape and soon, I was standing outside a great wrought iron gate. It reminded me of the gate outside The Palvine Residence. To my surprise, the gate had been unlocked, despite the hour, and the gates where flung open. Someone was already here. My heart beating a little faster, I stepped forward through the barricade the gates had receded and started along a much narrower path which winded between the trees and was almost obscured by snow. It was only now I noticed that I was still holding the rose. A strange sound began which started with a sound not unlike the wind which ricocheted around, but soon turned into a sound more violent that split and cracked the frosty air. It was soon joined by the harsh shouting of a man’s voice. My walk now turned almost into a run as the snow began to fall a little faster and I began to notice little grey stone popping up. I was in Notre Dame Graveyard.