She was born out of sad songs and cold dark nights.

Wandering the streets aimlessly every day, she picked up small pieces of the city. 

When it rained, she was gleeful.

When the sun was shining, she hid away.

Loneliness often crept up to her, coaxing her into the darkness, sending her running to speak to the grand piano in the room down the hall.

The whisper of the notes sending chills through her heart and warmth down her spine.

She was a dwindling lit cigarette tossed onto the busy street, waiting to die and burning with fury.

Her body formed cancer in the bodies of those merely passing by.

She was a darkness that no other could comprehend.

No one knows where she ended up. Lost in the big city? A cabin deep in the woods?

Lurking in the shadows of a ghost town no one knows the name of?

Not likely.

Most say she is six feet under, buried deep within a crypt where the innocent children go to whisper ghost stories.

She is finally content, alone with the darkness that has always been her best friend.

The ghosts of her past now bring her sad songs on the coldest, darkest nights.