Are we allowed to respond to our own challenges? Whatever.
Slouching on the frozen plastic train seat, a young girl of about eleven or twelve bent over a large book she was pretending to read. Instead, her pale, high-cheekboned face was tilted towards the window, where the stormy landscape cluttered with swaying trees was disturbed by random flashes of lightning. A curtain of thick ebony hair separated her from the outside world. With shockingly electric-green eyes, she soaked in the world without letting herself be soaked in.
The train screeched to a stop. Half an hour later, she was stepping out of a banana yellow taxi with the crisp scent of autumn in her nose. Ahead of her, a few paces but what seemed like miles, there was a beige-painted house outlined wit the setting sun. She turned slowly to face the south and silently said a tribute to the hometown she would never again visit. Then shoudering her small pack and saying a final pleadin prayer to God, she trudged wearily towards the humble abode.

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