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Grade
9

On the coldest evenings, Ivan would take out the storybook. We would sit at the fire and I would fall asleep to tales of princesses, monsters and true love.

 

When I grew tired of hearing the same words, Ivan would tell me my own story.

 

He told me how my mother was a young adventurer seeking a fortune. How my father was a young, rich noble. How my mother fell in love with his gold and agreed to marry him. How, in their temporary happiness, I was born.

 

And then, how my mother left him. How my father sent his unwanted daughter to a desolate province. How he died in an accident a week later.

 

No matter how many times he told the story, Ivan always ended the same way. Remember, your story is far from over.

 

Ivan would leave the room, and I would sit on the floor and gaze into the fire. In the bright flames, I could almost see the fortune I might win. The monsters I’d have to fight. The girl I would fall in love with.

 

And sometimes, deep in the glowing coals of the fire, I could almost see a happy ending.