My heart aches for the girl, so small and so alone in this brutal world, sitting by the small lamp barely receiving anything from its faint glow. The image in my mind of her hunched over, writing or reading, makes my heart twist. She reads, attempting to block out the horrific yelling along with the items that were thrown along with it. She wrote, pouring out her tormented heart to the blank pages, hoping to be consoled. Maybe she thought it would comfort her, but nothing can substitute when your telling someone, to know that their listening and caring. It's not the same as then your looking into someone's eyes, hearing their love and compassion more than the noise you hear with your ears. It’s not the same with paper, after pouring out your troubles, you can't expect a hug, or someone telling you how they love you so much. Oh, how my heart breaks thinking of her so small, so helpless. I wish I could go back into that time and give the girl a hug and tell her she'll survive. Show her me, because that's proof she'll survive. But I'm limited. So all I can do, is give myself a hug, and whisper, Chaya, I love you. Look, you survived.