She wondered what had become of her.

A mute kind of darkness had settled in—numbing her until she felt nothing at all.

No warmth. No glow.

Not even the comfort of tears.

She was buried beneath her own wreckage.

A sorrow too still, too deep, slowly hollowed her out, long after life had taken her color.

Her voice.

Her name.

There might've been a better way to live—but she never learned how.

This isn't where her story began, but it is where it ends—

in a journal she never meant for anyone to read.

Quietly.

Slowly.

Until she was no longer easy to find.