And then, I was there, in the remote northerly corner of England, after my journey in the footsteps of young Arthur Kipps, from tremendously busy London's King's Cross station to slightly lethargic Crewe, and from Crewe to somewhat drowsy Homerby, where I found the branch line to rural, secluded and mystical Crythin Gifford.

I left London's November greyness, with inclement weather and short days; but yet vibrant with flashing neons, shop windows and cars’ lights, with Londoners preparing themselves for the Christmas Holiday, a festival of even more lights and fun; and I found myself in a picturesque tiny village, among houses tucked snugly back against the winds and rains, invading this village frequently from both the marshes and the sea.

Every day, every hour and every minute I can hear your weak voice plead for rescue, and yet I am not able to help you, as I was not able to do it that day. My whole body is shivering, my heart is throbbing, my legs ready to spring, but where, where? Nothing can be seen, the treacherous fret approached suddenly blinding both the driver and the horse; the evil, maddening shroud fogged the place, cursed by the dead and the live alike, and nothing can be heard, only you, my little boy...

What a mother was I that I let it happen? My little son, I have lived in the abyss of despair. My love and my life, my beautiful child, I promised to love you and to take care  of you...will you be ever able to forgive me? Sitting in a rocking chair in your room, I watch the marshes, the place where I heard you the last time. I watch them and I hate them.