II

...ɪ...

Underneath the same penumbra in a quaint orphanage, was a raven-haired clad in a white dress shirt layered with a dark chocolate waistcoat, and a pleated skirt and stockings as dark as ink framing her slim legs, added with hazel coloured ankle boots. She was pacing hither and thither, a pair of rectangular black glasses fixated on her face with ridiculous naïvety, her head devoid of any thoughts as she was waiting for her dear blonde friend.

In the tranquil blue yonder, which was abnormally for the clime during the months of autumn, was a maiden hair of gold, frienziedly running toward her younger friend. The blonde wore the same raiments, still the same dress dripped in the colour of hyacinth, with the same white sash, and this time, a pair of Mary Jane's shoes as white as driven snow conspicuously scintilated beneath the light.

Lenore was dishevelled. Clear beads of sweat rolled downward her brow, and her long tress of gold scattered athwart her round face and narrow shoulders, nevertheless the girl's beauty would still rival a ravishing nymph.

The blonde stood fixed before Melan, slightly tremulous, and took in a tremendous amount of air, and her bosom ferociously heaved upwards and downwards. "Ready?", Lenore asked with an oscillated voice, her gaze remained on the raven-haired, and the latter lethargically nodded.

"Then, to the mall we go!"

...ɪɪ...

Melan was seemingly anything but happy, rather she seemed profoundly perplexed and somewhat vexed, nevertheless she still followed after Lenore like a ragamuffin begging for money, or perhaps more like a forsaken puppy. It would be understandable however, for it was the first time Melan had observed anything this lively and joyous as this establishment and it's people, which would no doubt but acutely fabricate a juxtaposition if placed beside their sombre orphanage. 

Lenore, on the other hand, was thrilled. It would be perhaps an understatement to say the blonde was excited, she was solicitously enraptured, and one could see glee and contentment painted athwart her countenance.

The two young maidens wandered hither and yon, and occasionally stopped by some boutiques, stores, and arcades; and they eagerly tried out every accoutrements, every games. Tired from the stifling air and a anarchic myriads of people, the two adolescents pulled through the anarchic torrents of animated people.

And before Melan knew it, the young girl crashed into her peer's exquisite figure. Before their gaze was a spectre-like wreath-bedighten frieze layered upon soaring shafts, and, quite reluctantly, they sauntered abreast inside the Patheon-like building. There were but people and books, and in Melan's orbs devoid of light, this was her Eden.

...ɪɪɪ...

Melan exuberantly, and perhaps impetuously strolled across the throng of people, the sound of her boots screeched against the cream coloured tiles dispersed in the still air; and she abruptly stopped by a small, vintage table in the corner of the room, attentively stared at it as if everything else has evanesced, completely ignorant of Lenore indignant whimpering behind her.

The raven-haired girl seated down punctillously, facing her fellow, and she took out her worn, beige notebook and began to scribble in it, while listening to Lenore's impudent ravings.

As Melan drowned on her sea of empty words; a young little girl, perhaps at the age of seven or so, clad in a simple knee-length, sleeveless dress in a light shade of virescence, and a long scarf with the colour of fresh lemon wrapped tautly around her neck. Somehow the girl went unnoticed, and she stood silently beside Melan, while attentively watched the black trails torrentially incised on the smooth surface behind a pen in which the maiden was bequeathed to.

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