An old woman sits hunched over a large tome, candle light flickering, her bony yellowed fingers and wrinkled arthritic hands delicately clasp a ravens feather, scratching pages and pages of writing into a red leather tome. The wind howls and the shutters rattle as the rain beats down onto the roof above. A cat preens itself on top a pile of papers while a pot bubbles away in the corner of the room. A pipe sits beside the old woman, its contents smoldering away, she breaks momentarily only to inhale a chest full of smoke, diligently she returns to her writing, chronicling all that she can recall. The task is daunting, and seemingly never ending, her fingers and wrist ache and she curses away to herself glancing in a mirror wondering how does this frightful visage stare back at her? She wonders how many more years must she endure in this weak and frail body, recalling a time when she was youthful and full of vibrancy.
