Every morning when she woke up, still in her thin white nightgown, she would walk in bare feet along the walls of the room. It was always the same. 16 of her small strange feet and 16 the other way. With this knowledge, she then prepared for her day.

She put on her gown, and tied an apron in front. It had small blue flowers embroidered on the bottom edge. The first time, she had been surprised that she could work the strange fingers, as if she was able to access a real woman's mind.

Next she threw up the window and stuck her head out, looking for witnesses. She waited until there were none. Sometimes this meant hours of waiting, and the guards would start beating on her door. She had started getting up earlier so no one would be about, except the high walls. She would rather have the walls see her than the guards break down her door. Walls didn't tell anyone, anyway, not even the wind, which was subject to all secrets.

With a view clear of any human, she would then proceed to descend from her window. She then walked in the gardens. The other women began to come out and join her in strolling, each silent and alone, walking through the gardens.

Everything was duller now. She wondered if the others felt the same. She doubted it. They had probably taken it for granted that their prisons were the same, not knowing for sure it the walls were slowly drawing closer... and then walked boldly out of their doors, where guards could catch and hold them by the flesh.

This was all so new, different, and not good. She couldn't see things as she did. Everything was to a certain scale. She could no longer view the entire world, and then swoop to narrow down on a single ant trudging through the forests of grass. Nothing ever spoke to her anymore. The flowers were silent like the walls always were- the trees, even the animals didn't make sense to her. And flesh was a prison for the mind and soul. The guards could hold her small wrist and she would be caught

She stood at the crucifix in the middle of a small garden. Others had fountains, the crucifix was special. She remembered when Jesus died, but most of all she remembered what Jesus did.

Standing there, she let the white winds fuss at her, checking for damage to her mind. Through her ears to see if she'd been broken, made human in any way. Some mornings the winds would be content and wisp away to play with the clouds that adorned the blue skies, chasing them around the world.

But some mornings the winds were ill content, and lashed with cold fury that no human clothes could protect against. Tears like rain would come, and the wind responded to the drops as such, gently lowering the droplets to the ground as an offering to the plants there.

But a communication that was not so much a scold as a reminder would follow, helping her recall the moments of the wind.