Chapter II, Pt I

Ah, Mya, such a name, quite befitting of a youth. A young woman's name, early in her twenties perhaps; not the name an elderly woman may carry. However, such was the name for Madame Dumonte. She never used her first name anymore than she used a bottle to receive her milk. Madame Dumonte had long outgrown the name, and was now nearing the ending stage of life. At exactly what time the name lost its use isn't quite given, it was as if it were a gradual metamorphosis, and suddenly emerged was no longer Mya, but indeed Madame Dumonte herself. It may have been on the day of her late husband's death, or perhaps his funeral. No one knows for sure.

Much was the same on this bright early morning; boiled water for tea, eggs and ham, and open window shutters to welcome the warm morning sun. Long has the war drawn out, the only man she held deathly close to her was now taken. There were times when she kept up with the war, eager for any letters or news on foot of the progress. All of that faded away somewhere, or she just tired of it. Or both. It was every morning Madame Dumonte would have her tea and breakfast, and contemplate this, not in eagerness, but in a reflective manner. There were some that would call her solemn, a solemn widow of the war-degraded slums.

Today's morning was one morning of one week, and it was on this morning of this week on a weekly basis that Madame Dumonte would go on a small walk to collect a few flowers for herself. If only one thing for certain was beautiful, it would be flowers. The very flower is the emblem of beauty, a lifter of spirits and tickler of the senses. One can not help but be rendered helpless by the sheer magnificence of the flower. Such sweet perfumes blossoming and budding in the Spring, droves and droves of them in fields, though never is it too much to spoil the portrait. This, of course, was all Madame Dumonte's reasoning, as she headed out her small wooden doortstep.

This time, Madame Dumonte would be heading towards the long abandoned church of the southern neighborhood area. Although the very structure had been aged and run down, the garden still stood there still, glistening in all its incensed worth. The smell of sanctity never left those old church grounds, as it is said that once a place has been made Holy, it shall stay so until the time no longer flows forward. It just comes to show that man made churches are not needed in order to worship, she would think. Such stamina and vibrance those flowers hold, almost a phenomenon. If only people themselves had such a strength, then they'd be enticing every moment of their lives!