I’ve known Barlow long enough to take his predictions seriously, even if they are usually ambiguous and random. So when he implied that the night would be less than quiet, I mentally prepared myself for the worst. But gods, I am never prepared when it involves the children. It’s the worst when they come for the children. No matter what horrors I’ve seen here these past five years, I never get used it.
Staring at the remains of the Jester’s victims as we buried them, I ask myself the question that has been haunting me for years: Is my daughter still alive?
Goodman, whose gentle nature stands in stark opposition to his sharp, metallic, cold features, attempted to speak peace and comfort to the families of the children we could not save. I stayed in my shadows and spoke to no one. Goodman has probably never lost a child; otherwise he would know the terrible truth: There is no comfort to be found. There is only the endless fountain of grief.
I don’t know whether or not to be grateful for the time we have been given off. I am once again alone with my ghosts. I boil water and take a hot bath, even though I know the action is useless. I have not been warm since I became one of the Cold Ones. Even the boiling water does not bring heat to my body. But still, I cling to the glimmer of hope that one of these days I will find warmth again, that I will one day be human again.
Perhaps I will go visit one of my fellow Watchmen before I drown in my grief fountain again.
Lost in the Mists
Saima's Journal: The Kids Are Not Alright