The girl curls up against the corner of the building, quivering in the cold. She's alone and wearing a button down shirt and trousers far too many sizes too large and a trench coat. They're her father's clothes. She could find nothing else. Her trial proved her innocent, but no other family had claimed her. The shoes upon her feet were his as well, yet her feet slip out of them. Ebony hair hangs above her shoulders in a halo of matts and knots, framing a sunken, waxy face, and hollow eyes. She's horrified, and curls away from everyone who walks by or even tries to help her. The nightmares have gotten worse; at least in the cell she had her father. Now, she had no one; only her worst fears kept the 14-year-old girl who stood only at four feet, six inches, company. Libra Jane Black could have been beautiful and she still possessed an almost sprite-like quality. Inside her, in the depths of her heart, she had to gain courage. From her coat pocket, she produced a yellowed crumpled paper with an address on it

14 Ennisore Square

At this stage, he could be the only one to help her. She vaguely remembered the pallid man with pale brown hair. He slept in the bed across from her father when she was first born, and later became his roommate in the years preceding the arrest. Libra stood up, shakily, weak on her feet, and sought out the man she had called Uncle Moony in her early childhood.