Time went on, night befalling day and day succumbing to night, a dark shedding of truths blanketed before the moonlit sky. Through the splintering wood of a tattered shed, the moon's tears glimmered in the breath of the night. To the girl, lying upon the creaking floorboards of the sheds' crusted interior, the light was the catalyst of hope. Slithering in slits through the cracks, holes, in the punctured walls.

Desperation tugged at her contorted form, grasping at the strings of such hope. A hope she fought for, against her torn heart. Threads unraveling, derailing, slipping through her frail fingers as her bones grew nearer to the depths below.

Filtered in phases, of light and dark, the moons form shifted, waxing to waning, to the birth anew.

Each day, each hour, each minute, the girl lay in solitude. Her deranged mind was utterly confined to the ragged structure, constraining her withering soul.

Tick, tick, tock.

The clock of time, once fruitful, was now distorted, overturned to a demented hue; it thrummed in her ears, dismantling her beacon.

Withering away, she was. Chained to the walls of death's backdoor.

The cycle must continue; the wind whistled in an unrelenting howl. Creaking in an obscene bellow, the rugged door slammed open with the force of nature's bearing.

Cloaked in the shield of night's vacant bowels stood a figure of eerie stature. Head downturned, a glimmering silver blade brandished in its colossal grasp.

Laid before the moon's ghastly blade, the girl fluttered her eyelashes. Allowing her lids to close.

She was the shadow beneath the assassin's blade.

Leering in the face of death, beckoning her home.

Death and life, a binary as old as the glistening stars above. Truthfully, its complexity reigns strong amidst the space of time. In its abstract essence lies the foundational turn of being. Some label it as a blessing, others mutter it a curse.

Lack of time, lack of life, lack of purpose.

The moon's phases, nestled amongst the stars, shimmering betwixt the clouds of mist and dew, tick down to one's last breath.

A cycle unbreaking, foretold in the depths of the night.