The Girl Who Cried Wolf [Eng.]

1. The girl who cried wolf

The girl who cried wolf.

I saw somewhere that it was going to be one of the coldest winters in Daireaux; however, the closer I got, the warmer I felt. Thinking about returning home after all those years was a greater joy than expected, considering the conditions in which I left.

At home awaiting my arrival was my grandmother, grandma Clementine (the only name she allowed people to use).

Grandma Clementine appeared intimidating to some, but she had always been my favorite person. She wrote me every week about new books she got her hands on, how the flower shop was going, and delicious cruelty-free recipes that would make me feel better about being away from my grandmother's kitchen.

On the contrary, I vaguely talked about my life, school, work, my therapist sessions, and even less about friends. There was no good about worrying her. After all, grandma Clementine already wasn't happy about me leaving, even when she was the one who sugested it.

My fingers tightened with the cold coming from the outside while doodling on my sketchbook. The thinnest snow began to fall, covering the tops of the forest trees when the bus entered Monroe's station.

Waiting at the station were tired passengers, small children elated by the weather, and a group of guys in really fancy outfits. But I could only concentrate on the dark mirage that seemed to be the woods. It was a calming image next to the big city frenzy.

Through the window, it felt like a painting made with sad colors; smoky green, black shadows, a white figure, falling snow, disappearing steps, sharp eyes...

The bus stopped abruptly, whipping me forward. The vehicle had made a full stop when I noticed a stain on the drawing; It seemed like I had been drawing unconsciously. Between two stems, there was a black figure but nothing human-looking. It pierced the image like a spiked creature, like something that hell would spit gladly.

"Excuse me," said someone in a stern tone next to me, "could you change seats?"

I unnoticeably rolled my eyes and rushed up, the old man watching me approach the window seat. I grabbed my backpack and tossed in the book and pencil, with the feeling that if my therapist were to see that drawing (or any of my weird drafts), he wouldn't have let me leave town.

* * *

Daireaux wasn't the one I remembered when the vehicle crossed the entrance bridge.There barely was any trace in sight of the little town from my childhood. In any case, big buildings, shops, and apartment complexes covered the previously uninhabited fields that welcomed visitors. You could almost mistake this old town for your regular small city.Still, they hadn't finished the bus station. So when the vehicle dropped me in the main square, full backpack, bag in hand, hoping the boxes with the rest of my stuff had arrived, I walked the distance to the house more by memory than anything; grandma Clementine would've found it difficult to pick me up in such weather anyway.

The town's church, just across the square, with the eclectic gothic facade that characterized it, was the first thing I noticed hadn't changed a bit. A shiver went down my spine. Even though I didn't have a problem with religion (I had never been religious myself), places like that gave me the chills.

Right across from it was the bank with people waiting to go in very early in the morning.

"What a drag," I thought to myself, snow dripping down my back.

Making the way down the main street, I hastened the pace while trying to absorb every change the town suffered in all these years. It proved to be a very difficult task; even though I remembered little bits and pieces here and there, time did my memory wrong.