The rain fell down onto the small alley next to her window. Sarah had always loved the way the old pain of glass caught and twisted the light from the street lamps. Sending small vortexes of colors dancing around her bedroom walls. But today she found no joy in the cheerful spectrum. As she stared blankly out the window paying not even the slightest bit of attention to Mrs. Darby’s cat, of whom she loved most fondly.

The cat seemed to be reflecting the same feeling Sarah kept quietly to herself. It of all the things in her life knew her best. For the greatest listeners are those who cannot answer back. Her grandmother had always hated anything that couldn’t take care of it’s self, so the cat, falling under the category of useless disturbances was of limits to Sarah from day one. Which of course had only increased her desire to be-friend it.

Mrs. Darby had named her feline companion, Paws. For Sarah this name lasted but the minute she heard it. Paws, such an un-creative name. But she didn’t blame Mrs. Darby for naming her cat with such a lack of passion as if to be naming a brand of kitty litter. For she realized in the pride of her youth that the imagination received as a child, begins to dwindle with the increased numbers of your age.

So Sarah thoughtfully re-named “Paws” to Pluie, which means rain in French. Since her loyal companion only came to her window when it rained, which in the small town of Dunburg, England, happened a lot.

She longed to know more in French and she even desired to attend a real school once more. For next month she would be twelve and the late night home lessons she received from her grandmother, prevailed her no further into the French vocabulary then the un-progress fill conversations about weather. Which seemed to be the only real French either her or her grandmother knew.

If her grandmother had only known that poor motherless Sarah would be thrust upon her at age nine, to yet become a permanent resident. She would have perfected her French and maybe even been as thoughtful as getting her a tutor for other common subjects such as arithmetic and social studies. But this had not been the case for no one knew that beautiful, young Lauren Cassidy, Sarah’s mother. Would fall deathly ill at age twenty-seven, leaving Sarah a seven year old motherless child with her father, Luke Alexander, a loving yet terribly dumbfounded and grieving man.

All would have ended well if not for the un-ceasing war that called all eligible men of age eighteen to fifty four to serve in the dwindling army. Luke being a youthful thirty-one fit almost too perfectly into the equation. So on May thirteenth, bags in hand, Sarah and her father took separate trains to their final destinations.

At the time Sarah looked at the re-location as an adventure, nothing permanent her father would say each time he wrote her. But Sarah’s hope, just like the letters, began to dwindle until finally today, May thirteenth, exactly three years after their separation at the train station. She received the last letter and with it, left her last piece of hope.

This letter at first was like the rest with the official wrappings and the official stamp covering the top right portion of the card. But only after pulling out the continents of the letter did things begin to look different. Typed, the letter had been typed and addressed to Sarah’s grandmother. How peculiar, Sarah thought to herself while opening the card, but with the announcement of this curios mystery, her grandmother’s face drained.

“Grandma! Grandma! What is it? What’s wrong?” Sarah asked over and over again. But her grandmother only but quietly mumbled something to herself and shook her head back and forth as if she could shake out the hastened thoughts running around in her mind. And before Sarah could read any further down this mysterious letter, it had been so brutally snatched from her tiny hands.

After seizing the letter from Sarah’s hands her grandmother instructed her to sit in her usual spot on the coach. Sarah watched as her grandmother reluctantly unfolded the piece of paper that just seconds before was wrapped ever so nicely in the crème envelope now lying on the floor, close to Sarah’s bare feet.

Her grandmother read the letter once, twice, three times. Over and over again she gazed at the stiff font, holding each word in her mind and letting it go back once more onto the heavy stalk paper. Finally when it seemed as if she could recite the words by memory, she looked up.
She looked at Sarah, but her gaze seemed to travel through Sarah, past the clean tan walls of the small city house, and into another room of a quite and forgotten memory.

“An explosion,” Sarah’s grandmother mumbled as if sharing a quite secrete. “Grandmother, I don’t quite understand,” Sarah replied.
Her grandmother began again with many pauses, “Ah…your…. Father. He was… was killed… in, in an explosion.”

All Sarah could do was sit and stare at the now disgusting envelope that dared to bring her such horrific news. The world around her began to fall away. She could no longer hear her grandmothers mumbled attempts to explain away the letter. The only thoughts in her head revolved around May thirteenth. Such dirty tricks time plays on the mind. Three long years of living with her grandmother, now only feel like three short days since she last saw her father live and well. Thirty-six months marked with repeating numbers. Numbers that never move forward, never change, but also never fall back, never forget.

The house was now filled with apologetic neighbors, old friends, and forgotten family members. Sarah had never been one to be social and today of all days she wanted to be alone. So to keep from the constant apologies from un-familiar faces, the worried glances from concerned strangers, and the apologetic hugs given only with sympathy. She stayed locked away in her room, counting the thoughts that run madly through her brown wavy hair and listening to the rain that seemed to drowned out all of her worries and replace them with a deep dreamless sleep.

The next couple of days revolved around multiple decisions and by May twenty-second all decisions where final. Sarah’s role in these decisions was slim and only but a few times did she even get to voice her opinion. But to Sarah nothing much of what she did mattered to her anymore. So in the first of June, bags in hand, Sarah got on yet another train, yet this time her father did not accompany her at the train station.

Sarah watched as the landscape outside the small cabin of the speeding train changed. Transforming from small city houses stacked one on-top another, to vast fields of lush green grass and back again. The train ride was shorter then she had hoped for and before she knew it she had made it to her final destination.

She stood with her trunk filled with all her clothing in her left hand and a small bag of things that had once belonged to her mother, but now held a special meaning to her in her right hand. Sarah made her way to a near by bench that faced towards the city streets, her back facing the train she had just gotten off of.

Her thoughts wandered about until finding a common interest. She wondered what her new home would be like, she had never been to an all girls school before and the even the simplest thoughts scared her. But before she could follow her thoughts any father she was interrupted by a tall, broad shouldered woman. This woman standing in front of her introduced herself as Mrs. Trotter the school head advisor. She was wearing very strict business type attire, small tan heels, and a tiny matching hat. She towered above Sarah, throwing a threatening shadow over a portion of the bench. And with swift instruction and within but a few short seconds they were already in the car and on their way to the institution.

The buildings bland gray stone covering the entrance set a consistent theme to the entire strictly decorated building. Sarah was showed to her room and told to be prepared for supper precisely at six. Only once the congruent clicks of the small tan heels were no longer audible did Sarah finally let a quite sigh escape her lips.

To her dismay the room was as expected. A single bed laid in the middle of the room, surrounded by a tall, brown dresser to the right, a narrow window to the left, and a stiff black chair facing towards the yellowing glass. On top the bed laid a plaid skirt, a white blouse, a small cardigan, a short tie, and two duel shoes. With remorse she quickly changed into the required attire. After straightening her skirt in the full body mirror, she bashfully made her way down the double-sided staircase. Allowing her hazel eyes to wandering around her new surroundings.

She was seated next to Mrs. Totter at the long wooden table. And only after the seven-teen other girls had taken their seat, she was properly introduced. The girls seemed friendly while greeting her in unison. And after satisfying their hunger each girl was dismissed and sent to bed.

The next day repeated the same routine through breakfast and after all being finished the girls met in the class across the hall for their lessons. Each girl being similar in age, learned at the same pace. The first to be taught was arithmetic, one of Sarah’s least favorites. After long division was complete, they studied the anatomy of closely woven objects. History, Lunch, Social Studies and even French the subject that most interested her all where of the slightest concern. Until finally the day was over.

After un-successfully trying to join into a card game being played by two fellow classmates, she decided to make her way back up to her room. But on her way to her small haven, she over heard three girls silently mention her name. Quickly she hid behind the grandfather clock and quietly listened as the girls approached.

“I hear she’s an orphan.” Stated the pretty brunet one, who later takes the name of Emily. “And her grandmother got so sick of her consistent whining that she sent her away to this dreadful school.”

“But she looks nice, doesn’t she?” Questioned the short blonde who seemed to be fighting to stay within hearing distance of the two.

“I guess if you like ratty hair and pasty cheeks, then yeah real nice.” Emily snapped back. Sarah un-consciously ran her fingers through her hair.

“Well I think she’s pretty.” The blonde said back looking toward the silent third for approval. Noticing the critical glances being transmitted from the other two the silent third, with light brown hair and cat green eyes, quickly stated that she agreed with Emily.

Smirking victoriously Emily quizzically stated, “That’s just your problem isn’t Mara. You think too much, when you should be listening to me and Leah.”

By this time they were no longer whispering and had already passed Sarah’s hiding place. So without any further hesitation, Sarah dashed to her room. Once inside her small escape she found her way to the window. Expecting the company of Pluie, but after the short recollection of the pass events she settled down in the hard black chair. Allowing the soft tears to roll down her slightly blushed cheeks.

For the next couple days these same events took place up until around lunchtime of the eighth day. When Emily, who Sarah had tried exceedingly hard to distance herself from, thought it would be funny to cut up one of Mrs. Trotters highly esteemed blouses using Sarah’s sowing scissors

After the discover of the now un-recognizable piece of clothing, Mrs. Trotter began the examination. And to Sarah’s dismay all evidence convicted her of the punishable crime. So that Saturday Sarah was ever so properly introduced to the maid’s heavy mop. Starting with the down stairs she worked her way up discovering new hallways with ever stroke of the brush. And when at-last she had made it to the third and final level, thus freeing her of her chains, she sat stiffly on the steps leading to an un-known destination.

The other girls were all out of the house, leaving Sarah with her thoughts, mop, and now damp shoes. She began to fidget as her straining curiosity grew about what may lay up the narrow staircase she was using as a bench. Finally after she counted three echoing strokes moaned by the grandfather clock, she finally gave in. Slipping off her duel shoes, she tiptoed up the staircase, her socks muffling the sounds of her approaching steps. After her short flight was accomplished, she came face-to-face with a solid black door. The gleaming golden knob seemed to smile in her company, casting a shimmering net over her temptation and reeling her in, the golden knob being her fateful lure. As her hand slid over the cool brass, her fingers began to tingle.

Slowly she turned the knob, pushing the door open as she did so. The weight of the oppressing door made the aging hinges wail in protest. As the door opened a light smell of must and the simple smell that all old things must obtain traveled through the air and formally engulfed Sarah’s petiet nose. Quietly she slipped her head around the edge of the door, her eyes quickly evaluating the broad room.

Inside lay many abandoned trunks, an old and rusted bicycle, a small dollhouse, and many other abandoned objects. But the room could have been empty, for the only thing that caught Sarah’s curious eye was laying on one single discarded pillow in the farthest corner of the room. For there lying on a bed of lace covered feathers was a single porcelain doll. Sarah had never had a fondness of dolls growing up, but this one, this abandoned, breathtaking doll was different. Their hazel eyes entwined as she stepped around the door fully emerging into the room. Slowly she inched towards her fragile twin, her sock covered feet imprinting into the light layer of dust that blanketed the room.
The porcelain doll’s brown wavy hair caressed the simple lace pillowcase; her slightly blushed cheeks and her long dramatic eyelashes gave no indication that she was simply made of glass. Her small tinted lips where strained as if she was holding a long kept secrete. The resemblance between Sarah and this mystical glass figure made her uneasy.

As she stood mystified by this doll, a small meek noise broke the evading silence. It seemed to be coming from the doll, but Sarah passed it off to be simple something outside. Then it came again. Finally penetrating the silence, a light sweet giggle escaped the small tinted lips.