She floated through time and space unwillingly searching for the wormhole to paradise. She didn't find it, however she crashed onto a small planet. This small planet was docile and comely. The roots of trees intertwined themselves into the rich soil. The trees towered high, as if trying to reach the gods themselves. The insects sang songs of prosperity and joy, ignorant of the dead celestial beings that surrounded their home. She didn't know places like this still existed. The images that flooded her head were nothing but whimpers and hushed voices by old men within the factory.

Her home, if she could call it that, had black sorry skies. She grew up never knowing green, for the soil had its life sucked out. Scoop it up and it would turn to ash and dust. She grew up not knowing trees, not knowing songs, but only whimpers of the past. She reached adolescence knowing only the hard labor of keeping her mouth shut while the warden hollered and edged them back to work.

She walked the planet for 40 days and 40 nights until throwing herself back into the cosmos. She observed all the species of plants and learned all the songs of the insects. She floated back to her place of origin. She didn't speak of the paradise, for which she witnessed. She didn't sing songs. Instead, she went back into her mundane routine and back under the warden's shadow.