Deepwood Weald Black-eyed Susan

Wren was no longer sure just how long she'd spent chasing her, and at this point, the realization that there was no getting through to her had worked its way into her mind. She hated that she knew what it was like; that tunnel vision. 

She'd found the daydream crumpled beneath an aspen, shielding herself with her own body. Wren wonders if that was how the world saw her when she was a child in New Bayridge, a pale bundle of fear and anger. Everything and nothing all at once, the shaking fist hanging over her head, the fear of God. 
She stays back, decidedly, hovering from afar as if Reverie may shatter if she got closer. My name is Wren. I live in, uhm, the Valley, if you ever want to-- talk. To someone. 
And with that, she turns around and starts her journey home. Perhaps she would go to Riverclan, with the memory of the sunflower girl now leaving a thorn in her side. She wouldn't be forgotten; maybe sought after, but never chased.