It wasn't meant to be so short. It just kinda happened that way, the last sentence appeared out of nowhere with a note of finality. I hate it when that happens. ^_^.

by Leto

A trail of footprints, in the snow.

Embedded deep, in the snow.

Small footprints, in the snow.

A child's footprints, in the snow.

Bare feet, in the snow.

He didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he was getting away.

They would be looking for him soon. But they would not find him. He would go where there was no snow, where there would be no way of following him.

His cold blue feet stepped uncertainly, padding down the street. He kept to the side of the road, in an attempt to stay as hidden from the world as possible. It wasn't a kind world. It was one from which he wished to escape. Childish thoughts did not consider death as an escape. No such finality. Just running...

He thought not of such things. All he knew was that he was cold and tired and he wasn't going to stop for the world.

And he ran.

An hour passed, and two. The childish footsteps were slowing, wavering, uncertain. Unsteady on small frostbitten feet, the boy fell.

But he got up again. Always got back up to keep running.

It set the scene for his life.

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