The wind gusted up into the girl's flaming red hair, sending waves of excitement through her soul. She smiled and continued walking, following the sound.

There it was again.

Did you hear it? Not the same sound, probably. Are you imagining it again, going back and seeing if I left any clues as to what it was? Probably not; I didn't.

You imagined something else from what she really heard, and something else from what this author intended her to hear and heard herself, but none of them are really the same sounds.

She followed the sound, these soft whispers, up the unmarked path. The trees helped lead her there, letting her know she was welcome. They were covered with bright green leaves; all were shuddering from the howling wind's push.

The girl now stepped into a patch of moss, the whispers growing into conversations of unheard words. She looked up into the sky, sighing. There were no clouds.

And there was no sun. This was in the night; the moon casting a luminous glow so that you, the readers, and me, the author, can see through her eyes of the setting.

Or at least what I describe to you. Without me, this girl can't exist. The moon and trees do, somewhere, but not the same moon or trees. And the whispers. You wouldn't hear them, or what you think the girl hears, without me, would you?

I have complete control over everything in this story, you know. I can decide whether this will turn out to be a tragedy or not, a comedy, fantasy, science fiction, anything, everything. But I only have limited control—it's the readers' imaginations that will bring this girl to life in a world other than my own.

She now arrived where the whispers stopped and turned into real conversations of the night. But there was nobody to make a whisper—only the shadows of this night.

Now, what you probably imagined the season to be is probably wrong—it is not winter, not summer, spring—it is the earliest of spring's life, when nature's creations are dancing, celebrating their awakening after a long winter's nap. The bright yellow petals of a daffodil are just barely peeking out of the bud, fresh green scenery has replaced the dead barren one of winter.

And this girl. She joined in on these creations, listening and acting as they did in celebration, dancing. For she defied this author's purpose of the original plot of this story: she was going to find mythical creations of the Greek mythology: nymphs, flower people, animals with a true life meaning.

She was going to be one of Pan's creations with the nature world, become one with her family.

As she does now, only without these creatures. She instead celebrates with the plant life, dancing with them in the wind. A few of the small animals that I mentioned crawled out of their homes, watching this girl, some even joining.

This girl—the one you imagine differently than I—has indeed found her story purpose, by finding a purpose. All is well. The story can end, with the reader's imagination wandering from one scene to the next, imagining what this girl looked like, as I never gave a proper description.

And that was on purpose.

However, this story cannot end now. A man is silently watching her in the shadows of the trees protective layers, fury and hatred burning with steam behind those ugly puke-brown eyes.

For this man is—not was, never use the word was—the seven deadly sins in one:

Lust.

Gluttony.

Greed.

Sloth.

Wrath.

Envy.

Pride.

He watched the girl with all sins in conscious and unconscious mind, and they only grew stronger watching her happiness being spread throughout this forest, for it was a forest, I never told you otherwise, watching those smiling green Irish eyes.

Perhaps now would be the best time to describe the girl; it may now be the best time to hide and store the other version of the girl you have been imagining. For my description should make more sense. It'll fit the man's purpose more:

She had smiling green Irish eyes, as I have said. A lilac dress hung down to her knees; this was her favorite and most comfortable article of clothing she had. There were no shoes, or head pieces. Her hair hung down to her waist in a flowing red cascade, as you may have forgotten what I said at the beginning of the story. A few freckles dotted her nose and face.

Her name was Cheer.

The man felt all deadly sins towards her, with a blinding hatred, yet also with love. Cheer blocked his duty from the rest of the world, even if she followed some of the sins in their doing. But without her, there would be no reason for humans to allow themselves to be attacked by one two, all of these sins.

Without her, there would be no him. And yet . . .

He took a broad step forward.

She did not notice.

He took another, imaging how those smiling Irish eyes would fade out within seconds forever more.

Alas, as he made his presence clear in the celebration of Spring's coming, the creatures all ran. Cheer followed their hasty retreat, the blissful celebration over early.

Wrath and Lust were quickly replaced by Gluttony and Sloth. No, the man thought, I shall get her when the time is right.

Because this author holds nothing against Cheer. She has done nothing wrong, even if she assisted the sins on most, if not all, occasions. If she hadn't, why would they so easily overcome the sinner's conscious power, replacing it with the sin's thoughts?

But without Cheer, there would be no happiness. Happiness is mankind's only inspiration now, our only source of getting out of the hell, or our reality, that we have created for ourselves—and a hell it certainly is. This man—all Seven Deadly Sins—have taken over our world, whether you wish to admit it or not. We cannot take it back; only add onto the pile of reasons to make it worse.

The man went back into the embrace of the shade, disappearing into spirits with the wind. But what he left behind—what he had never intended to leave behind—was Chance. Those smiling Irish eyes will have another chance, to never run cold with illness, or to fade away into death. They would remain full in life, and remain so until time itself shall end.

Because no matter how bad our conditions are, there is always that remaining spark of hope, the happiness we make of reality. And that is the only thing we can hold onto now.