Titled "Crimson". A story representing the Individual and Society of the 19th century.

If only these walls could talk, then I shall have a friend. If only I could close my eyes, and not see my whole life flashing behind that black façade, then I would dare to sleep. The seconds, minutes, hours... Holds no meaning now. For I am nothing but a misplaced soul wandering across a white plain, where there is no start. And no end.
A little girl skipped across a pathway. Her long white dress swirled as she hopped across the stone steps. She then halted and observed a bush filled with red roses - her favourite. She smiled and laughed as she continued to move along. Her…