[Plot Locked to Moiraine, Say Sorry]
Allie stood in the middle of her room, head cocked, blue (white - black) eyes scanning it.
Something was….
Not wrong.
Something was off.
The room around her would remind no one of a ten year old girl child.
There were no toys strewn about the floor, half-fallen in an ecstasy, and no clothing dropped in the rush of bed or play, nor did it droop from drawers half closed. The closet nor the bathroom door were closed to hide a quaintly messy exuberant display.
The bed, perfectly made as though by staff, was a bedding of white-green plaid, matching in comforter, sheeting and blankets. The dresser and the desk were meticulously clean, with all the drawers pushed in close, the having a flower jewelry box upon it and the other a concise stack of text books. The closet, open to a line of hanging shirts and pants, and the bathroom to a sterile bathroom, softened by a fuzzy blue rug on the floor and a pink tooth brush on the sink.
It did not lack in the hints of a life.
There was a beautiful collector’s doll, with golden hair like a fountain, who sat on a singular small black wall shelf. There in the corner of the closet, was a Louisville Slugger, on which hung a baseball cap. Lastly a violin case, with music books lain against it, was on the floor near the desk.
But this (this) was not the thing that was off.
It was else.
The impetus to the ripple in a placid pond.
The fingertips of her mind brushed the edges of the solid and impertinent, pale blonde brows lending quizzically upward.
It had taken the better part of an hour, which lead near the hint of a mess one might expect in a child’s' room, to figure out what had taken her almost a year to remember.
Then another half of an hour, the first part of it spent tidying the prior mess, before there was a little girl wandering the corridors of Milliways living quarters.
Looking for a needle in a haystack was problematic to a normal person, but looking for a persons presence in Milliways was like looking for a singularly colored molecule in a universe that spiraled endless, not in existence but with possibility which formed forth at any touch.
It was not impossible. Or even improbable.
But it did take a powerful precision.
(And patience.)
At the end of that half hour, there was a very small girl, staring up at a (study room) door.
Then there was a very soft knocking sound echoing down the hall.
Something was….
Not wrong.
Something was off.
The room around her would remind no one of a ten year old girl child.
There were no toys strewn about the floor, half-fallen in an ecstasy, and no clothing dropped in the rush of bed or play, nor did it droop from drawers half closed. The closet nor the bathroom door were closed to hide a quaintly messy exuberant display.
The bed, perfectly made as though by staff, was a bedding of white-green plaid, matching in comforter, sheeting and blankets. The dresser and the desk were meticulously clean, with all the drawers pushed in close, the having a flower jewelry box upon it and the other a concise stack of text books. The closet, open to a line of hanging shirts and pants, and the bathroom to a sterile bathroom, softened by a fuzzy blue rug on the floor and a pink tooth brush on the sink.
It did not lack in the hints of a life.
There was a beautiful collector’s doll, with golden hair like a fountain, who sat on a singular small black wall shelf. There in the corner of the closet, was a Louisville Slugger, on which hung a baseball cap. Lastly a violin case, with music books lain against it, was on the floor near the desk.
But this (this) was not the thing that was off.
It was else.
The impetus to the ripple in a placid pond.
The fingertips of her mind brushed the edges of the solid and impertinent, pale blonde brows lending quizzically upward.
It had taken the better part of an hour, which lead near the hint of a mess one might expect in a child’s' room, to figure out what had taken her almost a year to remember.
Then another half of an hour, the first part of it spent tidying the prior mess, before there was a little girl wandering the corridors of Milliways living quarters.
Looking for a needle in a haystack was problematic to a normal person, but looking for a persons presence in Milliways was like looking for a singularly colored molecule in a universe that spiraled endless, not in existence but with possibility which formed forth at any touch.
It was not impossible. Or even improbable.
But it did take a powerful precision.
(And patience.)
At the end of that half hour, there was a very small girl, staring up at a (study room) door.
Then there was a very soft knocking sound echoing down the hall.