The house was big; bigger than most these days, but old. Old from a time everything had a name, and everything had a reason. It was once white, with a beautiful garden in the front and tall, imposing statues at the front door. Now it was all stained, broken and covered in moss, dirt and ashes. The sun didn't seem to be able to shine there, and the clouds above seemed to move, unconfortable. The wind was fast, but it didn't touch the broken gates, or the fallen door.
Perched in a eye-like window, a bird followed my every move.
It seemed wrong, somehow, to a living thing step beyond the gates, and yet.
I still remembered, from what seemed like a lifetime ago, the stories my mother told me. Stories of winged beasts, as big as the sun, of ethereal beings with flowing hair that walked in starlight, and the castles and caves they dwelled in. And how she painted those words- Colorfull like nothing I have ever seen, making even the perils seem plesant.
But real life, was rarely so expertly painted, so secure in the knoledge that it would end happily. And this walk, my part of the work seemed like such a heavy burden to shoulder alone, in a grey world like the one I ran away from, so far away from all the joys of my youth.
I still remembered what all her stories had, though.
The danger always started in the evening, for it was always darkest just before dawn.