Long story short: the hurricane arrived, completely demolishing the once peaceful town - without the little girl and her mother in it, since they had already flown to Asia.

There, though, the news hadn't gone unknown by them. The girl had read - well, seen images - on the newspapers explaining the tragic event. Her mother had learnt it likewise.

Image by image, their eyes widened, gradually pricking with tears.

The girl's aunt, her mother's sister, had turned on the old rustic television, and they could hear the news reporter:

"There have not been any proclaimed survivors on the sight, although a lucky few have escaped the place of danger in time to survive the threatening hurricane."

They were both sobbing now. Her mom hastily turned off the TV. The aunt, Margaret, was watching them, aprons in hand. She had planned for a family cooking day. The woman doubted that would be possible now.

She dearly looked after the two until it was past midnight when they finally decided to let the town's perish flow out of their minds.

The next day, they were flying back to their hometown to attend the funeral of the deceased townspeople, where only remains of houses laid.

At the funeral, the little girl and the mother parted ways. They were both walking on the grass filled with tombs, but to different people's stones.

The mother joined her surviving friends to grieve her other close ones.

As for the girl, her first instinct was to search for the little boy's tomb. Her father had been part of the lucky few that had survived.

She looked around her. A stone here, a stone there. People grieving here, people grieving there.

Unfortunately, she couldn't see his name anywhere. Hold on. She was illiterate. Of course she wouldn't be able to find it.

She stopped walking around and looked down at her feet, tears swelling in her pale green eyes. Only one thought was running through her mind, Where are you? Then, just as soon as that thought slipped into her mind again, she felt something lightly tap her on the shoulder. She turned around to find the plain little boy staring back at her. Her eyes instantly lit up, the salty water on her cheeks had quickly been wiped away.

He was here. Alive. Wearing the same clothes he had been wearing on the day of their kiss. His hair was worn in that messy-looking style that she absolutely loved.

He was alive.

She wrapped her arms around him with a feeling of utter joy and amazement. He did the same, and they stayed there hugging for a very long time, until the little girl pulled away, chuckling and crying:

"Sorry. I wet your shirt."

"It's fine."

"Where were you Caleb?" she asked out of curiosity.

"Does it really matter Heather?"

She smiled. "No."

And they ran unto the ruins of their no longer calm little town.

Now, let me tell you one thing: this is the plain little girl's point of view, and a story cannot have all the facts with just one point of view, now can it?