[Daisy is somewhat more calm on the walk back to her living quarters, holding the journal with both hands as she thinks to herself.

How much could she tell her? She knew well she could not reveal about why was she the way she was. Most troubling to her, though, there were many things she forgot from the time she used to have a home.]

I don't remember much of her. [She admits, somewhat sad.] I remember the way she used to talk to me, and the things we would do together. But not much.

[This is why she looks somewhat young. Because she was like this when she last saw her.]