Sometimes she'd close her eyes, and in the darkness of her solitude, she'd see a two-story house, off in the distance, surrounded by pine. She'd stretch her fingertips out into the air, grasping for something to touch, a splintered surface against her delicate, smooth skin, or the prickly blades of dead grass in the yard beneath her bare feet. 
Anything to get the feeling back. 
Anything.