The waif tumbled through the gusts of wind helplessly. The bush deeply rooted saw it coming and reached its brambly arms to snag it. Its branches clung to it against all odds, while the angry wind tried to force it loose. Its thorns entangled the hair and ragged cloth covering the mudlark.

More enraged than exhausted the door slammed shut and the wind abruptly stopped. The creature fell in a heap to the forest floor, unmoving. Everything silenced waiting to witness the moments to come.

Far above the canopy of summer leaves two puffs floated. Too far away to be noticed by the angry wind, they watched the deposit far below and formulated a plan. Together they melded and twisted, entwining their tiny bodies, merging and mustering all their combined strength they squeezed out a singular droplet and watched as it fell. Fell to and through the atmosphere below. Holding their collective breath, they waited, lest they create even the slightest breeze and send the droplet astray.

It shrunk as it was pulled ever downward by the gravity below, and when it finally reached her it was nothing more than the mist of the breath of a wood mouse, but it held hope to be sufficient.

All waited, the bush most anxiously, and much to its relief, the waif inhaled. A thimbleful of air and then was again still. Time and gravity forced the weak lungs to compress and the air escaped. She breathed.

She stirred. The bush retracted its arms and cowered. Her eyes were first to move voluntarily. They blinked open and began to assess her surroundings. Nothing was particularly familiar, or foreign. All just was. She sat up and searched for recollection but the book of her life had been written. All the pages full and the book had long since been closed and safely stored in a musty room of volumes.

She opened a new book, volume number two, its pages blank. Each item she viewed she noted in the book. A tree, she snapped a mental picture, named it, and defined it: 1. a tree, 2. offers shade, 3. home to many. The definitions were simple. She always left space for additional notes. The bush was defined as follows. 1. a bush, 2. thorns, 3. arms, 4. stole me from the wind. She continued to write the book, storing each item with its corresponding picture in the book in her mind. 1. berry, 2. good for food, and she stopped.

Hunger closed the book. She stretched her pencil legs. Thin rubbery arms provided the balance needed to secure her miniature feet and spindly legs underneath her body and move toward the berries. She selected three, plucked them and sat to consume them. Mulberries, she updated the book. Each one was carefully dissected and digested, until her miniscule appetite was satisfied.

She noted all things within her vision, except herself. It was irrelevant that she did not know her name or own history, because her beginning was this moment, and her name would be known, or given, by those she had yet to encounter. It was best this way. She examined her legs and arms. Having decided she was sufficiently well, she stood and faced the bush.

It refused to react, though it may have shivered. Its actions were instinctive only. It didn't look into her eyes, and the others understood. Beautiful as they were, they were dark. The pupils wide, always, appearing to be pure black. But if one was to search her eyes, they would see that the large pupils were rimmed with a thread of amethyst, and within that rim of amethyst, there danced flecks of citrine.

Wisdom, however, would suggest never looking too deeply into those eyes. To do so would provide a view into the darkness. One would never find what they searched for there, for they were hers, and one could only find their own soul in their own eyes.

She gave the bush only a cursory glance and then, seeing flickering lights far away, as only one with very wide pupils can do, she ran in that direction, neither in the direction she had come from, nor the direction the wind had swept her, but another. She fled without even offering the bush a moment of gratitude. For in the book, she had added under bush, 5. no thanks needed, 6. no reward given, bush took its own, and beside the comment she had snapped a picture of bits of her clothing and strands of hair hidden amongst its thorns.