Raindrops light as feathers caress her shoulders that soften as a rich, dark curtain of hair falls down her elegant back. The hidden brother watches from the shuttered antique windows of the faded crimson barn in the open vegetable field. Splashing slightly, the girl saunters between rows of cabbages and carrots, walking quickly with a purpose. On her feet worn in cowboy boots carry her dreamily across the field. The brother is frozen in the window, a perfect statue. Where is she heading? What is she running away from? And most importantly, why is she leaving?

As the girl floats farther away, a forest of beautiful but barricading trees loom in the distance like the storm clouds above. She, who he had known so well, he now knew nothing about. Drinking in the mud-splattered white dress and similarly mud-splattered white skin of the girl, his own milky white, mud-splattered skin, a perfect symmetry of the girl’s, was clammy and cold. Those boots, the brown cowboy boots on her delicate white feet, are – were, he supposed – his own. The brother knows it was her way of saying, “don’t wait for me. I’m not coming back.” And so the sister had become the stranger, the stranger walking down the rows of cabbages and carrots, in a mud-splattered white dress, finished with stolen, brown, worn in cowboy boots.