She is a ghost ship sailing the mud of the mountain.
She is a spectre parting the shrouding mists.
She is a shadow upon a midnight river, she is the eye of the storm.
In her hand, a heavy portmanteau. She drops it every few steps to catch her breath and pull her cloak closer about her face. Even her bonnet is black. She is searching for a dwelling that she is beginning to think might not be there after all.