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I live in a fake place. I'm real, and not a ghost, but I mean-I'm also not real. Not real to thousands. Real to hundreds.

We're not supposed to be alive, I mean, we're kind of forbidden. In a way, but also not in a way. We're dead but we're alive.

We're real but we're not.

My name is Gira Rayna. I am thirteen years old. I live in a small house, in a fake village. Even if you scoured a map for hours, you'd never find the speck of land we live on in between the big cities. The thing is, we're different. We don't have altered perfection, our skin is normal, a tannish color, our hair is blonde, brown, red, or black, but not hot pink, our eyes aren't purple or chartreuse. We don't have TV's or treadmills. We're not all that safe from disease. And most of all, we're criminals.

But so are the big cities.

If I were to walk in Siliter or Ponk, which are two big cities near us, with no disguise, I'd be recognized, and immediatly eliminated. Or taken in for death tests or questioning.

So how do we live? We grow foods and herbs, burn water, then cool it and drink, craft jars with dirt and clay...We steal.

We steal from Ponk, Silter, and Guriass, or Fern. We steal our nescessities, blankets screens, makeup sets and hair dye for entering various big cities.

Of course until I befriended someone. Someone who was to kill me.