The spun glass swirls like fire in the window and she wonders if she’ll ever make anything so eternal. She knows the glass may break and the shards be swept away, but there is always that memory.

She’s not an artist. She cannot make music and her talent with words is mediocre at best. Creativity? An alien. Her heart beats solely for the sake of beating.

Be yourself, they tell her. All will be made clear in time. Like the prophets of old, when people still believed in things like prophecy.

The problem being, she doesn’t know who she is.