Streets were cold at four in the morning on a Thursday, something about the way the cement became chilled from the night-time air seemed to open the doors of Daelia's wandering mind. There it was all out on the sidewalk, her demons and skeletons, dancing about while she stared into the nothingness. Saint was asleep in his crib, dreaming of things that oblivious children dreamt about when they had nothing else to ponder in the world. It was nice for him, wasn't it? The fact that the child's age at the time of Morane's demise was so fresh that he probably would never grow to question the Mohawk wearing man in his past. Daelia saw him too, the figment of her guilt and imagination as he stalked up and down the empty sidewalks. Even though the ghosts were fabrications of her own mind, they haunted her with how often they kept her up at night wandering infront of the house. She could practically see the scorn upon Zacch's face, the way his fingers twitched just like they did that night.

As her palms pushed up from the small dining room table in the kitchen, she stared out at the street as it lay emptied and cold outside her window. This was getting harder, keeping the monsters at bay, that is. While she'd worked so hard at persevering in the face of being a widow and while she'd fought her hardest to not give a damn.. the clench of lonely ghost fingers upon her wrist became taut. She needed someone to tell her she'd be alright again someday, that the dream she had for her future would someday be fulfilled and all would not be lost. Was this self-pity? Sometimes. Even though Dollinger was hardly the type of female who cried into her hands and sobbed every night over the things she'd lost, she was always much more proud of what she'd obtained and won in the length of her life. But please, could not you not spare her a second to take pity for what she had purposely done without? A father for her child, a husband to adore for all her years. Spare a second and don't judge, it's oh-so cruel.

As she backed up into the kitchen counter, she went about folding the kitchen towels to put them on the sink when she saw that the maid had left a phone message. Amirah was back in town and supposedly staying at the Motel, her eyes narrowed at the small yellow note before she plucked it up and eyed the scrawled writing. The lawyer was troubled, but maybe now her best friend from the Philadelphia was back and she would have someone to let all the demons out nightly with.

It was, after all, what she needed.