The sunrise suffused the sky with color, aureate rays finally waking up after a night's rest, the birds singing their aubade. The dreams that once kept her so entertained as she slept were already fading from her memory. The strong arms that once held her, and the blue eyes that once struck her with opia were no more than a fantasy now.

Faith, divination, love, she was so much more than the simple words often used to describe her. Time and time again, you could find her on the piano bench whether the sounds were a notturno or something more sonorous. Sometimes her voice joined in, oh and how euphonic it was, because maybe if she was loud enough, she could drown out the rest of the noise.

Just because she was quiet does not mean that her voice was any less worthy of being heard. Her words poured out through stories she told herself were fully fictional, but you and I both know she was telling the tales of each unheard part of herself. She was writing from a young age, too young to have already been silenced by society. Her sadness used to be noticable, but she learned how to build a proper facade after years of practice. Any success she found was always met with a bittersweet welcome. The undertone had always been there, ringing, never letting her forget.

She would always bend over backwards  to make others' wishes a reality, but never her own. And each time it takes a small part of herself that she’ll never get back. She first lost her happiness, then her innocence, then her hobbies. They haven’t taken writing or music yet. Not now, not these things that are keeping her afloat. But soon, somehow they might. She would always tell you that she could fix whoever her latest project was, but each attempt left another more piece of her missing. Of course she’ll never complain though, it’s not her place. Not when she is making people happy. Not when she hasn’t spoken truly in years.

 She has yet to find the peace she has been searching for all this time, maybe someday, but alas, the fleeting years slip by.