She is fascinated with life in a way that she herself, has met no one alike to her. In better words, fascinated with death, for that is what life is. We live to die.

She stares out the window of her bedroom, her arms covered in goosebumps and her elbows turned red as she leans on the windowsill, her face into the glass staring out into the midnight rain.

She ponders about existence, her existence. Will she have the same meaning as everyone else? Is she unique? Or does she share her meaning with people similar to herself?

She crosses her arms. Elbows off the windowsill and now close to the warmth of her body as she hugs herself.

Why do people fear death, she wonders. She has accepted the fate of her own, and everyone else's. She cannot relate to her friends and companions who she is close to, they fear death and the thought of it terrified them and is deemed unthinkable.

Her fingers are twitching with anticipation, the need to talk to someone, discuss with someone their opinion and views on life and death intrigues her so.

"Do you fear death?" She whispers to the moon. "Should I fear death?" As expected, no response, she sits quietly, staring at the rock in the sky and wonders of a life that is not her own.

In doing so she began the recollections of memories, remembering the time a young boy had shocked her with his wise words and enthusiasm towards the world, making her want to, almost, live.