Chilling, the icy, winter air whips the pale child’s delicate skin. Alone in her cold, bare room. Her head a spinning whirlpool of lonely words, broken phrases; but she can’t put them together. As night creeps up on her, she cuddles up to the blood stained veil, her only memory of her deceased mother. Slowly, her grey eyes, once sapphire, close to the power of the night.

Cold sunlight pours through cracks in the window, but the child still clings to the veil. For comfort, reassurance. Her hands twitch, itching to write, but her head can’t sort out the words. Suddenly, she begins to scribble on a small piece of paper with jet black charcoal. “Lizzy, don’t despair. I’, right here, like the howling of the dogs in the moonlight.”

Confused, Worried,Who made her write that? Well, what made her do it? What she didn’t realise was that small was the first if many to come...

Ashleigh Hemming, Year 8, Greendown Community School