A Memoir of the World

Chapter One:

Whatever happened to Hermione Granger?

Hiding from the world of reality, there is a woman. In her arms lay a child. And in this child... the fate of a man...

*****

Sitting at the kitchen table, a woman stirred the cold cup of coffee in her hand while absentmindedly staring out the window before her. On the table lay an untouched two-day-old underground newspaper. There was nothing in it that she didn't already know. Nothing in it that she wanted to know...

She heard a noise behind her and she turned around quickly to see her friend looking at her in obvious anxiety.

A chair crashed to the floor and the clattering noise of metal against porcelain reverberated in the sparsely decorated kitchen.

"Ginny?" The name came out in a strangled whisper and twin sensations of fear and paranoia escalated within. "They haven't..."

Ginny raised her hands in a pleading fashion, immediately regretful that she had augmented such alarm in her friend. "No, no," Ginny managed to say in what was hopefully an assuring voice. "It isn't anything like that, Hermione."

She watched as Hermione bent down to pick up the fallen piece of furniture. For a moment, Ginny feared that the frail body would snap in half from the exertion.

The former Head Girl had changed greatly over the nine years that have passed. The once brown, bushy hair was now black, straight and sheared short. Glassy green eyes, as if perpetually on the brink of tears replaced that of bright brown. As painfully eternal as her shoulders seemingly slumped in defeat and the terror deeply etched into the lines on what was in reality a young face.

However, no matter how drastic the physical transformations appeared to be, they were nothing compared to the torture that her mind and soul had endured... and was still enduring. Always looking over her shoulder, jumping at the smallest sound...

And the nightmares.

The bone-chilling screams were as constant as the starless nights. But what were more nerve-wracking were the tense intervals of silence in between. For sound was a sign of life and silence was that of death.

Back in her seat, a few strands of hair fell across Hermione's face as she reached out a shaky hand for her discarded coffee. The mismatched floral teacup rattled on the green saucer and the action caused Hermione to groan in frustration.

The urge to tear out her heart just to slow down its beating was gnawing at her mercilessly. What happened to her? Ten years ago, things had seemed so... promising. Ten years ago, the only things that filled her mind and heart were her family, her friends and her future. She worked especially hard on her future, a future that had been so bright. She looked at her surroundings and closed her eyes when her they fell on the broken toaster in the corner. Where was the brightness now? It was as if in one night she had fallen asleep and was trapped in this horrible nightmare that was now her life.

Now, only one thing filled her mind. A game... and its name was Survival.

Hermione bent her head down until she felt the rough wood of the table against her forehead. Desperately she grasped for the last remaining shards of control that she somehow managed to retain. She knew the consequences if she didn't pull herself together for losing the game meant one thing. Death.

And she wasn't ready to die... just yet...

Ginny wrapped her arms about her as if to ward off a non-existent cool breeze and leaned against the weak wall painted in a hideous shade of yellow. There was never a good time to say what she was about to say. She took a deep breath.

"It's time..."

Hermione looked up, a quizzical expression on her face a moment before the dawning of understanding and realization. "Where's John?"

"Asleep upstairs," the other woman replied almost instantaneously. "Mouse is with him."

A sigh was expelled followed by an uneasy silence. It always seemed like it was "time" for Hermione. She couldn't quite understand how three months could feel so fast and yet appear so slow at the same time. Three months... where life ended and began again. There was no cycle more vicious than this.

"Shall we go to town?"

Ginny cringed at Hermione's sarcastic enunciation. Her friend had decided to use that delightful emphasis for some reason, for the "town" was no town at all. It was a living cemetery. A place where people shunned the sun because light gave way to reality, and reality was something too harsh to deal with. In the clear bright sunlight one could see the gray rubble of fallen edifices and could never, for the barest second, pretend that it was anything else than what it really was... And no, neither could they ignore the smoke-tinged air that hung about like death on the prowl or the terror that lay buried beneath the ashes. Neither in day or in night... Fear was inescapable.

"Yes," she whispered in agreement. "It's best that we go right away."

Wooden chair legs scraped the old linoleum floor covering as Hermione stood up. She walked the few steps towards the kitchen sink where she dumped the contents of her coffee cup. Having cold coffee in the morning defeats the purpose completely. She watched the swirl of brown liquid against the cold gray metal.

"Hermione?"

Hermione was transfixed as if hypnotized into immobility. Slowly she closed her eyes listening to the sound of the fluid draining into a hole of blackness - falling into some unknown abyss. And through the darkness she found herself staring into gray eyes. Gray against brown.

Brown? No, her eyes weren't brown... they were green...

Her eyes suddenly flew open and her lungs gasped for air. Hermione hadn't realized that she had held her breath, neither had she noticed her white-knuckled death grip on the edge of the sink.

Light footsteps quickly crossed the room followed by softly spoken words.

"What it is?"

Ginny reached out her hand but before she could touch the older woman, Hermione promptly crumpled to the floor and shuddering gasps wracked her body.

Stop.

Stop it.

They weren't supposed to come back. The visions weren't supposed to haunt her anymore. Was he coming? Will he find her?

Will he find him?

Stop it.

Please, stop.

Please...

Ginny swallowed hard. "Hermione?" she whispered softly, afraid and yet too curious and compassionate to keep from not venturing any farther.

Green eyes lifted, filled with such terror. The eyes that have witnessed so much death and pain... so much hate and loss... so much love and life... and so much horror... too much horror. They were the eyes of the new world.

Hermione looked away and lifted herself up without assistance. Unsteadily she walked out of the kitchen, weaving her way through the old and musty-smelling furniture. Ginny followed as quickly as she could manage, momentarily stopping at the hallway closet to get their coats.

Not once in the five years that she had helped Hermione did she lament her decision. Perhaps part of her felt guilty. Years in Hogwarts had been spent in contemplative jealousy, unconsciously thinking of how much better her life would have been had the roles been reversed. And possibly the fact that she felt somewhat responsible for the damage her brothers had unwittingly caused.

And the other part was born purely out of selfish reasoning. Aiding Hermione gave her life meaning and that was something that one couldn't find all that often nowadays. She felt a certain degree of importance, a feeling that she had never been well acquainted with. To be needed... how wondrously delicious... and the only thing separating her from insanity.

She found Hermione pacing near the front door, repeatedly clenching and unclenching her fists.

"They'll be alright while we're gone, won't they?"

Ginny gave a soft smile. They all needed something to hang on to in order to survive.

"Of course," she replied, followed by a small wink. "Besides, Mouse will take of John."

Or someone to hold on to.

Ginny sighed good-naturedly as she helped Hermione with her coat. They were going to have to buy her a new one. Her gray coat was a few wears away from being threadbare and was noticeably frayed at the edges. It would take a bit of convincing on her part as Hermione would no doubt complain about expenses and such, but she would eventually give in. Ginny would make sure of that.

She slipped into her own shabby brown coat before they stepped out into the chilly October weather.

A cold blast of wind greeted Hermione the second she opened the door. Albeit the inconvenience brought about by the autumn weather, she loved that season the most. It was most elegant and the least pretentious of the lot. And elegance without pretension is no small feat.

The rocky gravel path of the small broken-down house crunched beneath identical footsteps. It was quite a long walk from their temporary residence to the town (or "town" depending on how one chose to see it) and one that they made often enough... and reluctantly enough as well. They had no control over this decision for to not go would cause great suspicion on their part, and that, frankly, was the last thing that they needed.

They passed the white rickety gate and were finally walking along the main road, the scent of sweet pine surrounding them. In silence did they make their journey only interrupted every now and then by Hermione who would ever so often glance over her shoulder just to assure herself of the empty road.

"Stop it," Ginny muttered under her breath. "Hermione you're going to give us both a heart attack with you going on like that."

Hermione nodded stiffly, her hand reflexively tightening about the wand in her coat pocket. How she wished that it were a switch that she could merely turn on and off upon whim... that was not the case however.

Ginny mentally groaned the second her friend looked over her shoulder again. She kept her mouth shut this time. Old habits are hard to break afterall.

It should have been a pleasant walk for the sky was unusually blue and the sun peculiarly bright. For Hermione, though, she took this time to ponder on what she had seen. A premonition? No... dear Lord, no...

The visions...

They had gone away for so long that she didn't think that they would ever come back. But now they have returned. With a vengeance...

"What do you think we need?"

Ginny grimaced at her pathetic attempt at small talk. How she longed to ask what had happened in the kitchen, for that look of absolute panic could not be mistaken for anything else. Not even if she tried.

Hermione looked at her friend for awhile before her gaze passed Ginny's right ear and unto the fields of tall grass that swayed gently in the wind. It looked somewhat like a green ocean with silent waves flitting through, creating peaceful ripples in its wake. She wished that she could wake up one morning with nothing in her head but the longing to watch a field of green grass.

Why couldn't life be simple?

"Some canned goods?" she replied listlessly, her attention turning back to the rocky path before them. She stared at it with studied interest. This seemed to suit her more than the field of sweet-smelling grass. "Nothing that will spoil of course..."

Ginny nodded in ready agreement, half of her joyful that her friend was no longer keeping her cool reticence, however the other half found disappointment for not being able to get Hermione to open up.

"Of course... and we must get you a new coat. And something John..."

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"And for Mouse, too!" Ginny added ticking the names off in her head, oblivious to her companion's knowing expression.

"And something for you, Ginny Weasley."

Ginny blushed as if the thought of getting something for herself had never entered her mind. Hermione instantly wondered what she would do without her friend. She would survive, yes, but the at the absence of moral support, can anything be tolerated for long?

Hermione mentally shook her head.

No need to waste time thinking what could have been, for what could have been was a dream that she had no ticket for, a privilege for those of innocent eyes and pure of heart and mind.

Hers have already been tainted through time.

Hermione listened idly to their noisy footsteps as they neared their destination. If she could, she would turn around and run all the way back to their house, but as it were she had no other choice.

Ginny saw the grimace and bit back a smile. She was on the verge of asking Hermione what had happened earlier when suddenly out of nowhere a darkly clad figure came hurtling towards them, knocking Hermione to the ground.

Ginny gasped in shock.

"Get... off..." Hermione gasped, the wind all but being knocked out of her. "Old Martha... this isn't the least bit funny."

"Oy, Moira, ye haven't a sense of humor have ye?"

*****

I remember all we dreamt of,

But life is not for those who like to dream...

~Aria

*****

He lit another cigarette and had just wished for a few minutes to himself when yet another arrival interrupted his peace.

"You didn't come to dinner last night."

With a swish of her elegant black skirts, the room's new visitor sank into one of the heavy wooden chairs.

They regarded each other in long moments of silence. It was a game between the two of them. A battle for supremacy yet one he would inevitably lose. An unwilling though fully acknowledged defeat on his part.

He sighed. "I know, mother." His chair swiveled to face the window. Still the absentee sun, it seemed. "My apologies."

The mother stared at the back of her son's blonde head, eyes narrowed in concentration. It was too effortless to just let go, to pretend that she didn't know what was happening. But mistakes wouldn't serve their purpose if one never learned from them. And she had already lost a husband.

She wasn't about to lose her son.

It would be difficult, she knew, for Malfoys chose their own fate, however seemingly erroneous it all appeared. Her husband was too ambitious for his own good and no matter what she thought about it, she bore everything with a smile and sealed lips. Anything for the men she loved.

Anything?

Yes, that was what she had thought then. But not anymore...

She remembered that night. Too well... and she wasn't even there. But she knew. She knew what was about to happen and yet did nothing to stop it. No standing between father and child begging for both their lives. No kneeling before fate pleading for its mercy to change, to alter its course.

But fate had already taken away so much from her. Fate had dictated her life, it had commanded her soul and it had broken her heart. There was only so much one could take. And it hurt to acknowledge that she had done so willingly.

Her life now resembled nothing but a vast void and last night had succeeded in multiplying the emptiness tenfold. Last night had provided for much emphasis. The long rosewood table with its endlessly vacant chairs, eating her cold soup, listening to the wind seep through the closed shutters...

"I missed you..." she whispered, for speaking the words quietly would prevent her voice from breaking.

Ear-splitting Silence.

It was happening slowly. She was already losing the battle. It was a heart-shattering and helpless emotion as if she were watching a derailed train coming to its inevitable conclusion.

The chair swiveled back again, and she met the cool gray eyes of her son. He looked down, staring at the fly that walking slowly along the edge of his hard wood desk.

"Forgive me, mother," the son replied through gritted teeth. "There were pressing business matters to attend to. And ..."

A train sailing off its course...

Her eyes narrowed again. "Business matters?" The two words hung in the air, ripe and ready to be picked up by an ensuing and much dreaded storm of emotion. "Business matters? Even your father..."

The son watched as his mother slowly clamped her lips tightly and looked away. He longed to feel something, a bit of remorse, an inkling of regret... But nothing was to be had. He had no heart, a fact well known. It was in him, yes, beating, yes, however it was but a mere accessory to him.

And it bothered him.

Not a lot. But it bothered him nonetheless.

His father was a sore subject, something filed under "taboo" and never spoken of again. Not that he cared to talk about the man... he had "pleasanter" things to attend to.

"Shall you come to dinner tonight, then?"

The words were clipped and should have stung the son deeply, but he did not flinch, he did not recoil.

"No."

The chair swiveled again and gray eyes examined the unchanging scenery. He knew that he had hurt his mother by what he had just said, but he was honest enough to admit that at this point, he didn't give a shite.

He was a man on a mission. And he always got the mission done...

Her spine stiffened considerably which shouldn't have been physically possibly. She had lost him. Her little boy was lost to her now, an irreparable detachment that she had seen coming but knew she could not stop. The tears burned the back of her eyes, but they didn't fall. No. They never did.

The train has crashed...

"I shall be going then..." she said to no one in particular. The room seemed void of any sign of life, except for the small creaking sound from the chair that seemed to serve as some sort of vague of acknowledgement.

Another swish of black skirts.

His hand reached up and began massaging his temples.

In a cloud of smoke a piece of paper appeared on his table containing merely two words.

Successfully subdued.

*****

Windows are open and I can see,

Tell me again what it's like to be free...

*****

She recoiled at the unmistakable stench of ale and rotten teeth, which were no longer visible, that the old woman's assumption produced.

"No, Old Martha," she said curtly. "I can't afford a sense of humor."

Old Martha laughed and slapped her knee. "Ah, Moira, ye could've fooled me!"

Moira stood up and brushed the dirt from her coat and frowned when she found a slight tear in the worn fabric of her coat. There was no getting out of buying a new one now.

"Yes," she answered sarcastically. "I love fooling people!"

Old Martha laughed again. In fact, she laughed so hard she began gasping for breath. "Moira, yer goin ta do me in one day."

Moira bristled at this. How utterly tempting...

Old Martha was the clichéd town's mad person. Apparently, every town had one. The person who had seen unspeakable terror in their lives and had chosen to all but block anything resembling sane thought in order to survive such trauma. She had led a simple life as a famer's wife, who delighted in the normal, almost mundane trappings of existence. She had six children and three grandchildren all in all and it was suffice enough to say that now she had nothing.

"Are ye goin ta town?" Old Martha asked, stating the obvious. Were one to describe her in one word, it would be spherical. She was quite spherical, as if should the sister's decide to bring her with them, they could merely roll her down the road. Her hair was a stringy mess, drawn into a messy braid that lay like a thick cord down the length of her back, and the thinness of her mangy gingham bloused was evident to all those who passed. As was the stench that accompanied it...

One should never sugarcoat words, for sugar was quite expensive.

Everyone in town knew Old Martha and Old Martha knew everyone in town, and for some odd reason that no one ever really understood everyone called her Old Martha. Never just "Martha," but always Old Martha.

The black haired woman nodded slowly. "To buy a few things, Old Martha." Moira replied stiffly, wanting to get the chore finished.

The two younger women began walking towards the town that was now in plain view before them. The townsfolk had warned them many times not to bother with Old Martha. According to reliable sources, they had "tried and failed" in their attempts to help the old woman out. However one cannot help another who does not want to be helped.

"Ooh... and buy a few things for Old Martha?" she asked, her voice slowly filling with glee. "You Cummings's are good people, ye know? How're yer brothers doin?"

Moira cleared her throat, a sure sign of irritation, her companion knew.

"Erm, they're fine, Old Martha. Just sleeping in a bit."

Martha nodded in as if just haven partaken of some sagely advice. Moira rolled her eyes again. They were wasting their time and the less time that they spent in town, the better.

"C'mon Kate," Moira said, her teeth clenched against her will. "We must be going. We don't want to be late for..."

Old Martha perked up considerably upon hearing this bit of information and Moira knew that she had slipped up in trying to get the old coot to leave them alone. She had quite unwittingly done the opposite.

"For, erm..." Kate looked desperately around. She wasn't at all bothered that Old Martha had stopped them for idle conversation. She seemed to be a magnet for old people. She didn't mind it. They had a quiet calm about them, and a wisdom that came with the experience of their years. And they were soft, a harsh contrast to a world that was so cold and hard.

"Tea!" Moira exclaimed suddenly. "We'll be late for..."

Kate raised an eyebrow quizzically. Tea?

But this obviously pathetic excuse to rid them of her superfluous company did not register to Old Martha as she nodded again, seriously considering what Moira had just said. "Yes, tea..." The tone of her voice was that of one who had finally understood a particularly harrowing Arithmancy problem. "Well, off ye go then!"

Moira bit back a sigh, immensely thankful for the reprieve. Although she would never say it out loud, being around Old Martha made her stomach turn inside out. There were too many painful memories etched in the epitome of lunacy... the screams echoing in the corridors, the painful betrayal and the ache of loss and separation so exposed in cold and empty nights. And he who haunted her...

"Moira?"

"Hmm?"

She hadn't noticed that Old Martha had already left.

Kate ran a shaking hand through her dark brown hair. "Shall we get going?"

Moira nodded slowly, as if trying to decipher each word separately in order to understand it as a whole. Suddenly, her head snapped back as she gazed at the road they had just traversed to once again assure her of their safety.

Kate sighed again and looped her arm about her sister's. She should be used to it by now, she knew. But she wasn't. However, she didn't know the horrors that surrounded each paranoid habit. Ignorance was bliss, after all.

The town loomed before them and the two sisters instinctively flinched at the sight. The town was definitely no town at all. It merely consisted of a somewhat narrow lane and dilapidated buildings on either side that might suggest that they were slapped together by a child playing with his blocks. There was only one prevailing color and that would be "ashen." Everything was gray and... broken. Just like the people who lived there.

"Oy!" someone called out in a half-yell half-croak sort of way. "Moira, Kate! Get yer pretty arses here... if ye know wuz ged fer ya!"

Moira rolled her eyes. Was the torture never to stop? She slapped on a beaming smile, as did Kate and both turned to face Sam.

The town drunk. As every town had one...

Sam, as opposed to Old Martha was merely called Sam. Everyone supposed that the old man had a surname, as did anyone born into the world. Unfortunately that mystery was unlikely to be solved as Sam had appeared to have forgotten his own last name.

He was slumped against the wall of the first ramshackle building to the left, a brown paper bag in his hands obviously containing a bottle of some spirit or other. He was a thin man with even thinner white hair that sat atop his head like a cloud and his sun-burnt face gave a hint of a past livelihood underneath the sun.

"Sam," Kate said, and then began enunciating each word as if giving important instructions to a child. "We're running a bit... low on time. We really must be getting along with our chore."

"Is that right?"

Moira nodded quickly. "Yes," she replied tersely, not wanting to waste anymore time or words on him. She sighed. No... that wasn't right at all. This wasn't the way she wanted to be. More than anything she wanted things to go back to how they were before, and she was going to have to start with herself.

"If you're nice," she told him with a bit of a smile, "We'll bring you back something."

Sam eyed them suspiciously. "Whatever I like?"

"Whatever you like," Kate repeated in affirmation. She was relieved that this little "trip" seemed to lighten Moira's spirits a bit, and no matter how small a change was a significant change nonetheless. "Except women," she qualified with a laugh.

Upon seeing Sam's crestfallen face, Moira bit on her lower lip to keep from laughing. "How about some whiskey? You look like your running low on ammunition..."

Sam looked down at the paper bag he clutched in his right hand. He raised his hand and tipped the bottle over revealing it void of content. "Yep, a bottle of whiskey sounds about right." He smacked his lips in anticipation. "Now, go and get your chore done and come right back 'ere."

"Aye, captain!" Kate said in a low voice accompanied by a mock salute.

Moira didn't hold back on the laughter this time, and she let the sound burst from her chest. It was such a heavenly feeling that she didn't know why she stopped the habit. She vowed to laugh more often.

"And to the store we go?" Kate asked her, unaware of her silent pronouncement.

Moira nodded.

They began their stroll down the street and Moira tried her best to ignore the signs of destruction and war and focus on the happier scenes to be had. However, the shattered church steeple and its caved in roof or Peter Kingsley who was missing an arm and his beloved wife, were difficult to miss.

Moira tried to concentrate on the group of children who were playing hopscotch by the side of the road. They filled their surroundings with the sweet sound of their laughter and Moira let her guard down for one precious moment.

And she closed her eyes.

She hadn't a clue how long she stood in the middle of the road letting the carefree sound of mirth consume her like a piece of music that overwhelmed the mind and overtook the senses.

"Moira?"

Kate watched as her sister broke into a huge grin. It was so beautiful a smile, so heart breaking and pure... seemingly devoid of any pain. She swallowed with some difficulty.

"We're here." Kate pointed at the general merchandise store.

Quickly they moved down the aisles grabbing what they deemed necessary and some that they didn't need at all, but thought that John and Mouse would get a kick out of them. They didn't purchase much. Just enough to get them settled in their new... home.

Moira paused in front of the section that sold mirrors. She lifted a small circular mirror, which was framed in neon green plastic. Why there would be a whole section of mirrors was beyond Moira's comprehension.

She gazed at herself. Black hair, green eyes... For safety precautions, she had been advised to change her features in order to look more like her son.

*****

This would've been a better place,

If we were only soldiers and saints...

*****

A fist slammed down on the rickety table in the middle of the room causing rolled-up pieces of parchment to jump up and down.

It was a bad day.

Dawn and had come and gone and downhill from then on. Success had seemed so imminent, almost tangible enough to grasp and kiss. However, a bloody defeat was what they encountered and lost a good number of able men and women in their faction.

"What the fuck happened?" The lethal words forced themselves behind clenched teeth. "Everything. Everything was bloody perfect. This wasn't supposed to happen."

A hand lay on the infuriated man's shoulder causing him to look up into a face that was identical to his. "Oy, George," his brother said softly. "There isn't anything we can do now except tend to our wounded."

George took deep breaths in order to calm himself then nodded his head slowly in reluctantly acceptance. Yes, there was nothing they could do to change it. It was all a part of history now... another grim defeat of yet another rebel faction.

"How many did we lose?"

Silence.

George turned around and studied his twin who, in turn, was studying the floor. "Fred?"

"Half."

George closed his eyes, hoping that doing so would block his mind of thought. They had sent a hundred of their people on an ambush in Dartmouth, thinking that they would take the enemy by surprise. Obviously, things had not gone the way they had planned. George couldn't help but think that there was something going on that he knew nothing about.

He averted his gaze, fixing it on the vase of white lilies that stood on the nearby windowpane. He watched as the wind blew causing the delicate flowers to sway along with the gentle breeze.

"You don't see those everyday," Fred spoke up, his hand making an idle gesture at the flowers. He didn't like talking about death either, but George seemed to always take the losses too much to heart. Perhaps it was because George had too much to lose and every defeat was another inch closer to death.

Fortunately for Fred, he didn't have anything to lose.

Now.

"Carrie picked them yesterday. It was the first time she had ever seen lilies..." George smiled slightly, and turned back to face his brother. "Can you believe that? Heh... and to think that we had them growing by the truckload in the Burrow..."

As quickly as the smile came upon Fred's face, it left. The Burrow... what he wouldn't give to be able to go back home, sleep in his own bed in the room that he and George had always shared and wake up to the smell of his mother's cooking and his father's soft voice.

Fred cleared his throat discreetly. "How's Carrie doing?"

"Better."

Silence.

George ran a hand through his short red hair. This wasn't something that he wanted to talk about and he was secretly annoyed with his twin for having brought up the sore subject in the first place.

He was a changed man. Was he a better man? No. He would never assume. But somehow, his life held more meaning. It had more purpose. And somehow, in a twisted and ironic sort of way, he somewhat preferred the way things were now.

Somewhat...

"How are the rest coping?"

"Uh," Fred frowned at the change of topic. He knew that he shouldn't have asked but he had to. George had to let these things out of his system as he looked so near to bursting point these days. "They're doing fine. The medics are tending to the wounded as we speak."

George nodded. Helpless... he shouldn't feel such, but that was what he was feeling at the moment. He was goddamn helpless. He should have been there with the rest. He should have made sure that everything was perfect. He should have been there to save the lives of his fellow rebels...

But he wasn't.

How long? How long would he have to repay for his sins?

*****

Hiding from the world of reality, there is a woman. In her arms lay a child. In this child...the fate of the world...