The Last Witness

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There are times when all hope seems lost. When every precept and foundation previously held as true seems to have been torn down or to have faded into insignificance, and all that surrounds and lies ahead is grey desolation. And while those feelings may not last long, perhaps only moments, when they hit they are all-consuming, they form a high, impenetrable wall beyond which nothing else can be seen.

Elena Waldren was gripped by such dark contemplation, darker than she’d ever known before, as she sat parked in Montreal’s Rue St-Urbain, thousands of miles from her home in Dorset, on probably the most important quest of her forty-five years, her passenger a ten year-old Romanian girl who at one time had been as close as her own daughter, though had become practically a stranger the past two years. She shook her head; that was part of the problem right there. But she couldn’t keep them all under her wings forever.

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