Hey. This may seem a bit unfitting with that last chapter, but that is because this is a skip over a couple of days... My co-author wrote this while she was in Africa, so now we are finally up to the present. Anyway... Enjoy...

It was an unusually warm evening. One of those odd twilights where the heat doesn't seem to come from the fading rays of the sun, but from the earth beneath below. When the heats rises and hangs low to the ground, covering everything in a blanket while the early stars against the darkening skies look so distant and cool. It was an evening made for rocking chairs and porches, a sluggishly lazy evening. Everything seemed to fit the mood; the shallow, fading light seemed to take its lazy time reaching the earth, the shadows were almost lethargic in their stretching, even the leaves waved with exaggerated slowness in the occasional tepid wind.

Maybe it was this overwhelming feeling of stupor – the subconscious will to move when all else is still – or the need to simply get out of that suffocation house; whatever the reason, Kouta found herself walking the near-deserted streets. But her movement wasn't that of one spurred into impatient movement; it was slow – deliberate rather than lazy – as if she walked to the time of a metronome only she could hear. The nearly-black-eyed girl would stop suddenly, as if to look closely at something of great importance. But she didn't look up at the appearing stars of the occasional bird; when she stopped, she seemed engrossed in the study of seemingly inconsequential things. A burnt out streetlamp. A fallen leaf in her path. The sole lit window on a dark house. She appeared to pay no mind to the few people out; the only who drew her interest was a man with his dog.

The man walked as if he had a ramrod shoved down his collared shirt, between his shoulder blades. In front of him, held stiffly, was the previous day's newspaper, into which he shoved his long nose. He walked quickly and with purpose – with the air of a man who always walked as such, even in his own home. While he could dodge the streetlamps and other stationary obstacles with the ease of someone who always walked without seeing two inches past their own nose – even without the paper – the man was less successful at avoiding his dog. Attached to a leash that hung around his masters elbow, the dog kept weaving around the man's legs in what was obviously as much an effort for simple contact was it was for attention. With a harsh word of reprimand after almost tripping, the man gave his dog a swift, stunted kick to get him out from underfoot - all without removing his nose from the business section. The dog followed at this new distance as if nothing had happened - or if it happened so often it was no longer even worth reacting – looking up at the man with what was obviously blind devotion – even to Kouta's eyes as she watched from across the street.

Kouta didn't know whether to be touched to the point of tears or sickened by the sight. Unconditional love. No matter what that man did, no matter how cruel he was, that dog would love him, absolutely; until the dog's eyes grew too old to look at him and his muscles weakened so he could not follow him. The dog would still love him… why? What did that stiff man ever do for his dog? He fed it, housed it; essentially allowed it to live. Like an artist to his work…. At this thought, Kouta froze, wide eyes not seeing the street in front of her. The thought had been just an analogy – brought along on the tide of thought – meaningless… but now her mind had picked it out, studying it in this new, horrifying light. What if – hypothetically, she told herself – what if, artworks were somehow able to come alive – OK, so that wasn't so hypothetical – would they feel the same blind love as a dog for his master? Would the children of such works feel the same for the children of the artist?

The thought was terribly frightening, even as it was horridly fascinating. And it wasn't without support, Kouta thought numbly – bitterly. Krad and Kari… and it seemed that Dark had fallen for Kari once as well. If… but that if was just too terrifying to put into words; too frightening to even be pulled into the reality of thought. If it was true – that if – there was no way for her to know, Kouta thought with just the slightest edge of panic. Blind love was called so for a reason, her sardonic mind reminded her. Suddenly, Kouta felt the intense desire to run – as if she could put distance between her and that if – as if that would give her the answers she needed – to the questions she wouldn't ask. She had to get out of Kari's house – it was an blind need and a logical thought – if she was going to be able to figure anything out. Then another thought popped into her head – uncalled and unbidden – that stopped her train of thought like an anchor … that is, if trains had anchors. Kouta couldn't run. She had just made a goddamned prophecy that foretold the doom of all the people that mattered to her in the world – in one way or another. Everything in her – the morals her parents gave her and her own strict code – rebelled against her abandoning the deathtrap she had just pulled everyone into. Everything but that one if. Still, she couldn't stay, just as she couldn't run. So the question was, what was a place you couldn't run to?