She rushes down the dim hallway, frantically, begging her old heart not to give out. her silvery skirt swirls about her stick-thin legs and a wisp of bone white hair falls across her wrinkled face. Her icy blue eyes are filled with terror.
She can hear the sounds of pursuit behind her, coming closer with every step. The shouts, the cruel laughs that echo towards her at odd intervals. They are coming.
She knows that she does not have long. She always knows. The old woman rushes down yet another dark corridor, searching.
She must hide it, and she must hide it soon. If they find her, if they find it...
She tries one door, then another, and another. All are locked. she can see the light coming closer towards her-- so close.
at last she finds a door that swings open at her touch. inside, a library. Perfect, she thinks, and enters, completely ignoring the tightness in her chest. It does not take long. She hides the object, the ancient, sacred object, in a place of the library where no one else would dare, would care to look.
She almost reaches the door, but her fingers never touch the cold silver knob. The womans heart gives out, and she is dead before she hits the floor.
The next week, there is a small announcement, telling of the death of a local seamstress, who was found deep in the catacombs of the city in which she lived. no one knows how she got there. No one really cares. The hidden object is never found, left to rot over centuries.
And the world moves on.