Once upon a time, there was a girl who couldn’t remember her name.

Though she had all else she could desire, a warm hearth to eat food, a soft place to lay her head, strong walls to protect against the night, she was bereft.  She sought out the elders of her village, and the wise woman at the meadow’s edge, and the wild men of the forest, but none could tell her who she was or how she had come to be.  Sorrow hollowed out her heart, and just as she had lost her name, she began to lose the simple comforts of a living soul.  Food became tasteless, and the flames of the fire ceased to warm her.  Sleep fled before her tired eyes, and the rising sun did not quicken her spirit.  She was alone, unknown to herself and all living creatures.

With each passing moment, she faded more and more, until one day, her steps began to lose their sound.  Light passed through her, as if she were a pane of glass.  With fearful hands, she touched the world, and felt nothing.  Nameless and forgotten, she slipped away from herself.  With none to see her, or know her, or call her name, she became invisible as the wind.  Like the whisper of a breeze, she blew through the empty halls, hardly stirring even the motes of dust.  She was a ghost of a girl, held together only by the faintest of will.

The wind knows no measure of time.  It simply is, until it isn’t.  It blows, and then it doesn’t.  And so it may have been for the girl, who existed as barely a breath for countless ages.

Except for him.  The one who, though he had desperately lost his own way, would one day, stumble upon hers.

This is their tale.