The figure's delicate snowy lips parted to release a whisper of a word. She stood at the edge of the vast tiled floor, her once beautiful dress now burnt and torn. Her long flowing hair had fallen from her tight bun, leaving it silver and soft at her shoulders, the singed wavy locks catching the dappled moonlight that shone throught the cracked window panes.
          She again called in the subtlest whisper, so faint you would think it were the passing wind. She watched the scorched room with blank white eyes, stepping forward upon the scuffed and chard granite. Her step was as light as a feather, making not even the slightest sound. Her flowing white train followed her, the...