In the land of Astraladia, where dreams danced on moonbeams and stars whispered ancient secrets, a humble farm boy gazed at the night sky with wide-eyed wonder. A shooting star streaked across the heavens. The boy heard a faint, ethereal voice beckoning him to follow the star.

I don’t speak English, though it be my only language. I held inside my hell, closed tight and hidden just for me, then my words became a fine spirit of pain distilled. The spoken word of articulated screams. Barely heard when first we speak, words with shadows vaguely heard.

She seemed tired and her gaze was always lost on the horizon, but she was alert. Her long dark hair fell to her narrow waist to rest in a small cage where she reclined. Inside was me.

"Stop," ordered Marcos, sternly. He gazed at the cake in Eden's hand. "You can't have your cake and eat it too." "Marcos, leave me alone. This is my cake! This is my birthday," she explained. "I can eat as much as I want." Marcos was furious as she started to gobble his piece.

Jerry glanced down at the photograph in his hand, then back up again at the woman sitting alone at the back of the cafe.