Drawer #7

Blankets of smoke hung like fog in a cemetery;

And the mirror was tarnished with ages of nicotine.

But this much was certain: That was not her face

Not her eyes staring back at her but then,

What did her eyes look like anyway?

Amnesia.

Schizophrenia.

Discipline applied with a nailgun.

Something is coming.

Something sacred lost.

Something sinister secreted at the bottom of the sea.

Premise of purity.

Power corrupts.

An unwalked path, down which worlds of wonder await,

Among the treasures love, perhaps even peace.

Words have meaning.

Salt in a wound.

She has no memory, no family, no name.

No place to lay her head.

But within her chest beats the heart of a lion.

She has a friend. If she can trust him.

Sea level. Desalt. Drawer number seven.