Hen Duffy Monologue

It all started when I found her autobiography. I had understood something was up. Nevertheless, as I stared at the open page, I noticed that the ink seemed to shine, fresh from the pen. At the bottom, I saw something that made me sigh as my heart got warm. A signature. Her signature. I harked back to the cold winter day I saw her, passing her on the street. She had stopped to help me pack some gifts into my car. I imagined her sweet voice calling out to me “Do you need some help, sir?” The female's voice rang out like a warm sweater that formed in the wind and wrapped around me. As she helped me lift the weighty gifts into the car, I finally got a look at her face. Her nose and cheeks were a light red from the cold. Bits and pieces of her hair had fallen from her not so neatly placed beanie

“What’s your name, stranger?” I had laughed lightly, trying not to let my nervousness show. “Elane. Elane Duff, though most people call me Duffy.” It made sense now. She had an autograph on her sweater that I had assumed was a celebrity I had never heard of. “Why do you have your name on your shirt?” I chuckled. She let out a few giggles before saying “It’s a decent way to keep a conversation going.”

"That's an agreeable reason, I suppose." I laughed as she shoved me playfully. I shook my head as the geriatric lodge scent filled my nose again. Now was no time to have a flashback. Elane was alive and hiding, though I wasn't sure why. I wandered over to her shelf of books, hoped that I would find something, anything, that would help me find her. I drifted my fingers across each title as I finished reading them. "C'mon Elane. You could've at least left me more than some biographies and history books." I sighed as I continued searching for clues. I grabbed a book and opened it, listening to the pages turn. I turned back to the front and looked at the epigraph, hoping maybe there was something there. Surprise! There wasn't. I couldn't help but