When I was little, before I took to writing things down, I had this recurring story in my head. I’d conjure it up when I was bored, or lonely, or upset. It was about an orphanage built on a cliff, and some of the children were pristine, while others wore tattered things and were fascinated by the simplest things—silver-plated lockets and keys that didn’t open any of the doors. They were under the care of a tall, shadowy woman with stocky ankles. She was always stamping in disapproval, and her voice was shrill. Her face was always shadowed. 

The orphanage might have been haunted. Rumors it was built on a sacred burial ground were popular among the children. And sometimes the children disappeared when they fell into the cracks in the walls. When this happened, the children might be gone for good, or they might reappear in the face of a clock or as a reflection in the mirror if the light hit it just so.

I don’t know exactly how old I was when I began telling myself this story, but it stuck with me for years. I never thought to write them down or share them with anyone. I thought what I was doing was normal. I thought everyone had stories in their brains. How else would they sleep at night? What would keep them sane when the world wasn’t to their liking?

Eventually I learned that this was not something everyone did. I asked another little girl what sorts of stories she liked to think about, and she didn’t understand. Neither did anyone else I asked. I still remember the shock I felt, and then, once it sunk in, the sorrow I felt for them.