There was nobody on the road except herself. Late time after all, it was almost midnight and an increasing storm kept pedestrians at the door of that gloomy March night. From time to time she passed cottages in which lights were still burning, but most of the houses were shrouded in silence and darkness. And still during the night, and the storm, and the gloom, the wanderer answered, with ruthless rain beating across her face, cold explosions from her thin shabby clothes and long wild black hair. Nevertheless, not stopping, not resting, never taking his gaze away from a distant city like a lost soul, hurrying to death.