There is no choice for him but to believe. He has nothing left to give in offering.

I shake my head, watching snow tumble and swirl from an all-white sky. The world seems so clean if you only look up

Because even if the lie is beautiful, the truth is what you face in the end.

Someday I'll tell you all of it," I say. "I'd like that," he says. "No," I say. "I promise you won't.

On tiptoes the redhead wouldn't even reach my shoulders; she is clearly too young to be a bride. And the willowy girl is too forlorn. And I am too unwilling. Yet here we are.

Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.

Don't forget how you got here. Don't Forget.