“Seraphina Hainel, a name fit for a princess!” Mother used to crow, as I calligraph my name in swirly amethyst coloured ink that had a tinge of pearl in the light. I wanted just plain black, but as Father says,”A nobody can become a somebody if they have the right clothes, name, and belongings. My name looks nice to people in that swirly amethyst coloured ink with the tinge of pearl that shows in the light, my fancy quill that is as swirly as the ink it is dripping on my parchment, swishing in the air like a big white feather duster. I lived normally before this. I wrote with a nice, sharp, #2 pencil. I wore jeans and a t-shirt to school, not huge, puffy ballroom gowns. I had a normal name: Sera Hain. And it all would’ve stayed that way if, on that blustery day, the small stranger with the stick of wood up his sleeve and his three-sizes-too-big cloak swooping around him hadn’t shown up with the letter.
I remember it so well. I had the windows open, my hair engulfing my face in a jet black galaxy, light drops of rain kissing my face, when the stranger came. He looked around. Left, right, left again, like he was crossing the street. He took a sopping, singed letter out of his cloak, and slipped it in the mailbox. In swirly amethyst coloured ink that had a tinge of pearl to it, it was addressed to the Hains. The stranger turned, looked left, right, left again. Then, as lightning flashed, he was gone.