Her dark brown curls fell upon her shoulders, curling lazily like silky ribbon. Her shoulders, narrow and uniform, bear the weight of a tattered leather jacket. With the jacket’s weight, comes memory of a pained friend she could not save from themselves. A friend she had vowed to protect, like she did the children of the orphanage. Those children, some might say her children; which she saved from the fire of her self-hate that consumed the orphanage. Of which would consume her like her memories did. The children miss the sweetheart of the orphanage. They miss how she would often say, “Don’t worry, things will get better.” Her voice often soft and tender like that of a mother. They would often seek comfort in her blue eyes. Her pale skin would be their cloudlike pillow. More often she devoted more time than she had, and would give heedlessly without bounds. Some little ones even tried to repay her. “No sweetie, save it for someone else.”, she would often reply, even when she knew she needed it. The children ask where she is every once and awhile and wonder why she is gone. Her children miss her, now with little to stop their tears.