Every night she would be on her balcony, sometimes sitting peacefully, sometimes standing, looking out over the valley. No one ever joined her.

She didn't belong, and she didn't try to. There was a mutual understanding - she stayed up here, they stayed down there. She loved the town, and they respected her, but that didn't mean they got along.

She was well known in the area, having always been friendly to those she met. The children especially loved her, often climbing up the steep hill to her house to talk with her. She always sat and listened to their problems, offering help or comfort. When the children got ready to go, she would often hum a song as she packed them a snack for the way down - a lullaby if they were high-strung, a calm, deep song if they were angry or upset, a song of courage if they were being bullied. She never fully sang, just humming enough so that when they got home, their parents would wonder how she got them so calm.

Every week, a car would drive up her driveway. A small, sleek, silver thing, it didn't match the colorful vans of the town. No one knew where it came from, except that it drove in and out like clockwork, Friday night at 6:00 to Sunday night at 6:00.

One Saturday, a man making breakfast for his family saw the silver car go slinking past. "Mother, come see this!" He called into the house, and soon the entire family was standing at the window, watching the silver car head away from the town.

That day, the news spread quickly about the silver car and its mysterious exit. As the children made their daily trek up to the house, their mothers accompanied them, unsure of whether they came to help the woman or to hear the story of what happened.

As they neared the house, their hearts were filled with grief. The wives wondered whether their husbands still loved them, children crying as they thought of their friends leaving them. Then they saw her, and realized why.

On the balcony stood the woman, no longer serene and content. She gripped the railing until her knuckles showed white. Her hair, usually smooth and plaited, was an unbridled, wild mess of blonde curls. Her usually smiling mouth was open in pain, singing a song of anger and heartbreak that caused the families to break down from their own worries. She started singing again through her tears, her voice unbreaking and as beautiful as ever:

I saved every letter you wrote me.
From the moment I read them
I knew you were mine,
You said you were mine,
I thought you were mine.

The mothers, frightened that this woman's words had such power over them, yet feeling compassion for her, sent their children home. They continued on, walking through the hurricane of sadness and anger that surrounded the house, hoping to help this lost girl like she had helped their children so many times before.