That which we call a rose (Closed)
There was little pleasure to be had in this world of endless wonder now that her daughter had been cut in her prime. The thrill of the hunt was fading. The wonderment she had once beheld had lost its luster, and the world seemed to have become just that much more gray.
A rut. She had concluded. That's what it was, she had fallen into a routine and gotten herself stuck. Simple as that and perhaps with enough time spent at the warehouse she would be able to move on from the untimely demise of her Christina.
A theory which failed to happen.
Days turned into weeks, which in turn added up into months and soon a year had passed since the unfortunate robbery and the world looked no gayer. The tedium of daily tasks soon took its toll on even the brightest of minds and H.G. Wells took her leave of absence.
She had tried to lose herself in her work, but the lack of results from that previous course of action had left her no choice but to reconsider her hypothesis. Isolation perhaps would accomplish what her work could not.
A respite which she found at the Chicago Columbian Exposition. A respite which was cut short by a telegraph instructing her to the presence of a nearby artifact.
Which, frankly, couldn't have preceded the actual sighting of the artifact by much time.
The telegraph had been handed to her only minutes from what she could gather to be a large bolt of lightning striking directly in the center of the fairground. Another minute and she had ran to the scene, and there she found herself staring at... nothing.
To find an area of the fairground completely barren of people was surprising, but to find herself staring at a fainted woman in what she could only describe as wearing men's clothing baffled the mind.
She did what came naturally. One hand rounded the strangers waist as the other pulled the other woman's arm over her shoulder and she hoisted her off the ground.
Decidedly, her time at the fair was over for the day.
