"Her soul is too dark, her thoughts, pure evil."
They murmur behind closed doors and windows
"Her eyes don't shine, her head's not right."
They tell each other and watch and whisper

"From where do the stories come from?" She asked her Grandfather.
"From the depths of despair. From the light of love. From the mists of mystery. From the hearts of imagination." He replied.

Trapped inside this broken globe
A flake without a mate
No two are ever made the same
And life's an icy fate

It wan't that hard to break into the cellar.
Mama said the lock was tough, iron. The door, heavy and stuck. Maybe in her time it was, but no longer. The worn steel door slid open smoothly, as if it had been oiled only moments before, and none of the wooden steps creaked as I made my way down the dark stairwell. I ran my fingers over the walls to my left, finding it soft and damp. Dirt.

Dew drops,
Rolling down pale white hills.
Smooth as silk
Falling, falling falling
Soft showers turn into torrents of rain
It’s pouring.

It was January 7, 2003. There was a blizzard outside that ravaged the city of Wellesley like a hungry monster, literally storming through quiet streets and neighborhoods of people huddled in their warm, cozy homes relishing in the day off from work or school. Many people remember that day as the beginning of the greatest storm to hit our small city. I, however, remember it in a different way. January 7th was the day that I found out the truth about my family.

Are you troubled, burdened blue?
Take my hand.
I've been troubled, burdened too.
I understand.