Up at the top of the frostbitten peak was the little cottage where I lived. With the brown shingled roof, and the mossy gray stones. Instead of doors from room to room we had the fuzziest curtains, made from vines and leaves and moss. We only had a door at the entrance to the cottage, and it was merely a stone that had to be rolled away. That was why I was considered to be broad and muscly for a girl my age.

I loved to explore the woods surrounding my little home, and was constantly discovering a new lake or pond to plunge in. There was lots of amazing wildlife, plenty of colorful birds, and adorable rabbits that also made delicious stew.

But by far, the best part of my mountain home was the view. It wasn’t the view that I got from standing outside my cottage, but the view that I saw from the tippy top of the tree where I had carved my initials at the age of twelve. I could see all the way across the valley, and to the other mountains that bordered the grassy stretch.

There were lots of little trees scattered in patches, that would stay red all throughout the year. But one tree caught my interest more than the rest. It turned green in the summer, and orange in the fall, and its trunk was gnarled and twisted. I could just imagine the journey I could have climbing up and up to the tippy top.

Behind these trees lay a beautiful castle. I didn’t know who lived there or of what circumstances they came to dwell in such a beautiful building. But I would often stare at its single peak, stretching above the curvy slanted roof below. The white walls, which I suspected were made of marble scattered with gold, were shinier than my mama’s hair after a good long soak in the wash tub.

I would watch the tall tower, wondering what wondrous rooms and secrets were locked away up there, and if they had scrolls like my papa had used before he had traveled up the mountain with my mama to start a family. I thought that with a roof of such a shade of blue, and the largest, most sparkling windows I had ever seen, surely they had leather-bound books up there.

I would pay three cows for a leather-bound book—especially one of those blank ones that my mama and papa called journals. I would buy one with a nice charcoal stick so I could sketch the creatures I found and the views I discovered on my little expeditions. I would be able to capture the way mama’s eyes glittered when she laughed, and the way papa’s smile glowed when he came home from a reading expedition.