There once was a girl who chanced too far; she reached for the sky and stumbled gravely. She lay for a month in the ruins of her life, before a cryptic magical being breezed in and brought her back to the other side. The other side? The other side of what?
She was cherished and nursed and, slowly at first, gained confidence in the moon and the stars and their sparkling promises. Before the end of half a year, she knew her character and picked up her story.
It should have been a new beginning, right there. But she turned the page and entered that gingerbread cottage, the one that looked so promising but was crumbling on its biscuit foundations. Her humanity disintegrated along with the sweet façade, and she no longer recognised her essence or her spirit in the portraits on the wall.
She woke in the dark, shadows eclipsing the starry brilliance that should have been. She heard the whispers of fabrication and deceit, and understood no more. Her intelligence was invention, her comfort was malice and her hope was bravado.
She searches still for the mystical key that she once had such a firm hold upon, but she no longer believes in its brilliance.