"I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched."

- Edgar Allen Poe

Dear Beloved Readers [Gremlins, Ineffables, the crying, and the laughing],

I have imagined myself in the hush of the bookshop; where every volume cradles a story and every nook reverberates with the echoes of ages, and the characters unfurl their destinies. I have a very personal relationship with a narrative of memory loss, and I have always found it to be the most painful thing when memories are what make each of us whole.

This story unfurled quite differently from the initial plans, but I suppose that makes it all the more indefinable. I suppose the question I wanted to pose in this prose is "What makes us human?" Not the biological standpoint, of course, because that is rather obvious.

Is it who we know? What we know? Knowledge at all?

Perhaps it is the ability to find beauty in the things that may not be beautiful.

Or maybe it is the insanity each of us holds onto because if we let go of it, we lose the imagination and the spark that allows us to create worlds out of words.

The beauty of silence, the rustle of falling leaves, and the warmth of the sun on our cheeks—all these simple yet profound experiences hold the key to understanding what it means to be human. In a world that often rushes past, this story serves as a gentle nudge to pause, to appreciate the harmonies of existence that often go unnoticed. And, to always remember while we can.

May you find solace in the spaces between the lines and may the echoes of this tale linger in your hearts as you navigate the boundless complexities of your own stories. I leave you with one parting thing to ponder; who is 'she' at the very end of this story?

With heartfelt gratitude and love,

Raven[Melon]