It was in the quiet hours that she did her best thinking. Away from the hustle and bustle of daily life. The quiet hours of night and pre-dawn suited her best. It was easy to understand why in a world so full of noise that such times were suited to one of her type. A quiet soul with a thirst for reflection and quiet existence.
Sitting alone by her window she would gaze out into the darkness, her face haloed by the light of a candle or her desk lamp. What wondrous thoughts passed through her mind one can only guess. What we can be certain of is that each thought was captured by the scratching of a pen across the page.
Head tipped forward her pen would scurry frantically back and forth before she would return to staring into that darkness. Until one day when she did not let that pen scurry. It sat still and silent on the page. Her head was bowed and she did not gaze at the world. It is at this point that her story truly began, for indeed, no story can begin until its principle focus has been cast out to find the light or perish in endless darkness.