LANCASTER-- At a produce stand on the side of the road somewhere in Lancaster County, an Amish man freezes when he is asked where West Nickel Mines Amish School is located.

In his eyes there is pain and a plea for no more questions.

He's hesitant, almost choking out the answer.

"Just a few miles back," he finally lets out.

Within that moment, I felt the inside of my heart start to cave in.

Why the hell was I even there? Just one simple question and I felt as if I was adding to the pain. He's probably heard that question numerous times within the last week.

I walked back to the car trembling, telling myself I should just drive back home. I had no idea who that man was. He could have been the father of one of the school children. I had no business to be there.

But, I had to experience it. I had to see that pain in that man's eyes. And then maybe, just maybe I could comprehend how the families could express forgiveness for an act that had shaken the community and had received nationwide news coverage for the past week.

A week ago today, Charles Carl Roberts IV, 32, stormed into the one-room West Nickel Mines Amish School. After releasing the boys and adults, Roberts started shooting the 10 girls and then took his life, according to the Associated Press.

Funerals were held last week for Anna Mae Stoltzfus, 12; Marian Fisher, 13; Naomi Rose Ebersol, 7; and sisters Mary Liz Miller, 8, and Lena Miller, 7.

A little less than three hours away from State College, the community lies hidden between little roads that weave through patches of corn stalks and homes. And one-room schoolhouses nestle on top of green hills, secured inside white fences.

Besides American flags standing at half-staff and church signs offering their prayers for the community, on Saturday it appeared nothing had changed.

A father sits outside his house watching his children play. A girl dressed in a black pinafore rides her scooter on the side of the road, standing confidently as she glides in the wind. A young man pulls a wagon full of crates. Families ride in black buggies, waving to each other as they pass, with little faces of children poking out of the carriage with tiny grins.

It could have been a postcard sold in a local store saying "Greetings from Lancaster County. P.S.: We're OK."

I followed the directions, along with the help of my co-pilot, Collegian photographer Andrew Lala.

We came along the intersection of Mine and White Oak roads, where stuffed bears were placed between red and purple flowers.

I drove the car down Mine Road and saw it. As Andrew snapped photographs, I had to keep the car steady.

I had seen that picture so many times in the last week on countless news Web sites. The schoolhouse, boarded up, stood high on the grassy null of a hill with a white fence that tried to protect it from the outside world.

A group of people stood outside a home near the schoolhouse. I drove into the driveway and parked the car hoping they had a story to tell.

In their eyes there was grief. One of the women started crying, saying that the last week had been so busy, that the realization of what happened had just started to hit.

A young man about college age kept looking down at the ground.

The group knew each other, knew the Roberts family and knew the families who lost their daughters.

They were all part of the community.

The woman with tears in her eyes said the teachers should have cell phones in these schools.

But, Melvin Kauffman, who was visiting with his wife from Philadelphia, New York, said ultimately it's in the hands of God.

And, inside I felt the same way. No matter how many metal detectors are put up, no matter how many picture IDs are issued, what's to stop a person from committing such an act?

When the college-aged man finally got the courage to speak, he said how two of his younger brothers attended the school and managed to get out of the schoolhouse. While barely looking up to make eye contact, he said there weren't any words to describe what had happened.

Back at the memorial on the corner of the roads, a father, mother and young daughter were walking over to the site. With a Cabbage Patch doll in one arm, the little girl placed a long-stem flower on the mound.

Julie Shafer, from Fulton County, said her family came to show support for the families who lost their children, as well as the Roberts family.

Her daughter Katie, 5, in kindergarten, was just a little younger than those school girls.

As they were walking away to their car, I couldn't help but think those little girls were just like Katie.

It could have happened to anyone, anywhere. And it happened in a one-room schoolhouse inside a white fence on a hill.