She was the kind of one that didn’t much care where She went. You could argue She couldn’t even understand the idea of a place, or even that she was someone, something, but even if She could, She wouldn’t have minded much. She had gone from here to there, from when She was small and unsteady and only knew to follow the one She loved around where ever She could, to the time She was strong and tall and those that loved Her would tail behind Her until they had found their own way. She had seen summer mists and slipped through rolling hills of snow, again and again. She found Her way through woods and past bustling stacks of homes and noise. She found sweet food spread across the wild lands and stared at fields full of green, blocked only by lines that bit but never chased. She had ran when a loud crack took her firstborn, and by time he was watching blankly over a room full of those that took him, he was forgotten. She wandered for years, never aiming, never doubting. And when Her fate came for Her, dashing faster than She had ever dared, She stood in its path and looked it in the eye. It marveled that She awaited it so calmly, mistaking resolve for fear.