That is the joy of reading fiction: when all is said and done, the novel belongs to the reader and his or her imagination.

At midnight the wind in the tress can sound like the ocean. The moonlight can make a road appear as endless as the sea.

Being human means losing everything we love best in the world," she murmured as she released me. "But would you ask to be anything else?

I never even believed in happiness. I didn't think it existed. Now look at me. I'm ready to believe in just about anything.

But most important of all, she explained that it was all right to say 'No. I disagree.' that was a gift. I understood it was power. The power to think my own thoughts. The power to believe in myself.

Are people drawn to each other because of the stories they carry inside?

My grandmother was overwhelmed by what was happening to us. She ahd moved back into the past because the here and the now was too terrible.