The curtains swayed in the darkness, drenched in the glow of the bright moonlight shining from the window. There was a girl with brown streaks in her hair and soft red lips glistening in the light, staring intently at the typewriter, unable to write a single sentence without a tranquil waterfall of tears spilling from her eyes. Her dreams were like ice, frozen and incapable of moving or feeling any human emotion whatsoever, locked away under layers of florescent water and lonesome nights. Betrayal was all too frequent for her, a young girl who hoped to convey her deepest emotions through her work.

The walls covered in darkness and shadows mocked her cruelly, reaching out to pull her into a void of despair and sadness, emptiness and tiredness; though something spoke in her, almost a beacon to escape the serenity and solitude she had liberated to. It was the voices of the past, reaching into the future to pull her back, back to a time of happiness and prosperity, a time when true emotions could be spilled through an art of writing.

An oil lamp beside the writer burned boldly just as her heart. The lights of Lisbon still shone brightly through the cracks in the window and the woolen curtains hung aloft. Her soul was calling, her passion had returned. Though the footsteps of the rejects echoed in her mind, the girl's mind began to heedlessly type on the keys, her heart racing each click. The words she had been incapable of expressing suddenly drenched the paper, the pit of passion she desired ever so greatly for months on end had returned, and it was done in such an incandescent manner that her heart leaped for joy.

Once more, the oil lamp burned into the early hours of dawn, dozens of disheveled papers crowding her desk just as before. Her imagination fluttered with wings across the paper, setting out on a journey to enchant her readers once again, happier than ever.