Chapter 1: (Prologue. )
The world is full of countless stories, all being told at the same time.
Some are so quiet you have to strain your ears to hear them. Stories like the grocer tells to the first autumn apples as they jostle for position on his shelves. He murmurs as he polishes them with his flannel sleeve, promising to make them shine so brightly that every single apple will take a journey in a basket to be made into a pie before the sun goes down. Only a little louder is the tale that the captain's young daughter tales her rag doll in the dark of night.
She huddles in her bed, listening to the wind moan. Soon, she whispers into one rag doll ear. Soon papa will return, safe and whole. That is what the wind is saying, she promises the doll. Papa will come home again. He will not leave us. Outside, the wind continues it's endless sob and moan. But as long as her lips have the power to tell the tale, the sea captain's daughter's eyes stay dry. Then there are the tales that shout, stories that can shake the rooftops with their wonder: the tale that sweethearts tell. Most wonderful of these are the ones when both the tales and the love prove true. And there are the everyday tales, the tales that make the world go around. Stories children tell themselves so they believe they're growing up faster than is possible, tales parents tell each other as they cling together, watching their youngster's strike out on their own, tales the old folks tell them to help them remember what it felt like to be young, stories the voices of the living chant over the graves of the dead, mourning those whose storytelling days are done.
Pick any time of the day or night and somewhere, everywhere, stories are being told. They overlap and flow across one another, then pull away again just as waves do upon a shore. It is this knack that stories have of rubbing up against one another that makes the world an interesting place, a place of greater possibility than it would be if we told our tales alone. This is impossible, of course. Make no mistake, everyone's story touches someone else's. And every brush of one life tale upon another, be it ever so gentle, creates something new: a pathway that wasn't there before.
The possibility to create a new tale. In this story- which, as I'm sure you've already figured out, is not one but several all flowing together, parting ways only to bump into one another again- in this story, something very remarkable takes place: All paths begin and end at the door of the Winter Child.
— New chapter is coming soon — Write a review