Gusts from the gathering November storm batter her body. She can barely stand on the slope of the majestic sea wall that seems to taunt the sea, which pounds wildly against the basalt ten meters below her – relentless, unyielding. She pulls her coat tighter, but the cold seeps in anyway. She feels the mist of the splashing seawater on her face and she sniffs the scent of salt and seaweed. “Come here, if you dare!” the wild waves seem to roar at her. “Come here! Then we’ll catch you after all!”

She doesn’t let herself be intimidated. Not anymore. Not by the water. Not by her haunting ghost of the past, the two wide-open light blue eyes disappearing into the dark depths. Not by her parents, who left a crushing mark on her life with the bleak memory of their last-born, too often forgetting that they had another child. Not by any of her other family members, who would rather pretend she doesn’t exist. She’s old enough to finally not care about anything or anyone. Old enough to finally put everything in its place.

She closes her eyes and hears the wind howling, just like then. She was six, and the world was a safe place – until that night, seventy-two years ago.

At the schoolyard I am allowed to stand with a group of six girls. When I say something, they laugh loudly. I prefer not to say anything. They never ask me to come to birthday parties. But I don't mind. I don't do well in crowds. I am always happy when the break is over and the school door opens again. I usually get an A in math. It seems as if the teacher doesn't like that. That's why I better make some mistakes, sometimes.