At the end of the village, a small girl was in the shelter at the bus stop. When she saw how I was approaching, she started waving her hand. I do not know what it was, maybe fate, I broke and pulled down the window. The girl was about my age, tiny, lean, with the hair of chestnut hair pulled back to the tail. Her clothes did not fit into a cold, dry morning, she looked like she’d just come out of a ball or a party. Fine beige blouse, black miniskirt, legs covered with thin pants and boots. She had such a special expression in her eyes. I did not take the trackers until otherwise – after all, it was my first long journey, and I planned to handle it myself.
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