Actions are the seeds of fate, and deeds grow into destiny.
- Harry Truman
The nine-year-old girl quickened her pace to keep up with her parent's larger strides as they eagerly approached the state's Gallery of Visual Art. With the sun's warmth blocked by the low gray clouds blanketing the sky, the nip of the autumn evening only increased its numbing effect on the girl's nose.
"I hope you remembered your handkerchief, Ib," her mother chided when she let out yet another sniffle. "I don't want you to get kicked out for disturbing the other visitors."
Ib reached into her pocket to reassure herself that she indeed had brought along the handkerchief her grandmother had just given to her as a birthday present. You're becoming a young lady, she had said, and a proper young lady always carries a kerchief on her person wherever she goes. Satisfied, she reached for her father's hand as they hurried up the steps decorated with billboards previewing the Gallery's main attractions. The newly added billboard at the top seemed to be causing the most excitement.
"Are you excited, Ib?" her father asked as they crossed the threshold into the building, relieving Ib's frozen nose. "This is your first time at the gallery, after all."
"And what better time to visit than today?" her mother added, her voice quivering slightly with enthusiasm. "The Gallery is holding a grand exhibition of works by the artist Guertena, which I've heard are simply inspired! I doubt that you'll be disappointed, Ib!"
"Alright, dear," her father said as he placed a steady hand on her mother's shoulder. "Should we head for the reception desk?" Her mother caught herself and blushed slightly. "Yes, of course, dear," she replied sheepishly.
As they headed for the desk, Ib began to feel slightly on-edge, as well as oddly enticed, as if her instincts were warning her about the presence that seemed to call out to her. Her childish curiosity triggered and she looked up at her mother. She had become engrossed in a pamphlet she had grabbed off the desk while Ib's father conversed with the receptionist. Ib touched her mother's arm gently, and she looked down from her pamphlet. "Yes, dear?"
"Mama," Ib began. "Is it alright if I go on ahead?"
"No."
The End