She sits at a wooden desk, drawing feverishly. Tiny puffs of air escapes her lips while the pencil moves. The room is frigid and she shudders. Her grey eyes are glazed over, and her skin cold to the touch. The girl’s pencil moves as if it has a life of its own, gliding over a white piece of paper.

She falter in mid-sketch, stopping. The chair squeals in protest as she collapses, her head cracking with a dull thud as it hits the tile floor. The drawing shows a phoenix rising from the ashes, graphite lines giving it sorrowful life. Her pencil clatters from her hand, rolling away from her.

Five days later, she is found dead.