Then there were the children who grew up differently, in a world that was so evil, a witch wasn’t needed to capture its image.

There were no pin-pricks here, only sharp blades and stab wounds. Children growing up alone, and in the cold, under bridges and behind dumpsters.

When evil was their reality, why use fairy tales of witches and wizards, adventures and thieves, a reality too beautiful for their minds to comprehend?

A child sits alone with a music box, cradled in his arms. With each chime he hears his mothers voice, a ghost from the past. Tears streak down his dirt-dusted cheeks, as he remembers her soft humming and her sweet voice, mimicked by his small treasure.

All they could retrieve from the fire.

As if a small machine could make up for the lives he held dear, claimed by the flames. With his parents, a bookshelf burned away, as did his wonderment at such beautiful stories contained between the shelves, of princes and dragons, magic, and happily ever afters.

Yet his music box played away.