Let me tell you a story,
about a little girl called Anastasha, Dawn.
She never could sleep at night,
so she waited for the morning, yawning,
half-alive, half-gone.
The stars whispered louder than her thoughts,
and the ceiling swayed with ghosts she caught.
Every shadow shaped like fear,
every whisper felt too near.
She’d hum lullabies to keep them out,
but silence always learned to shout.
The years went on — she got a little manic,
started drawing pictures in the attic.
Lines on paper, carved in pain,
her heart wrote songs her mouth couldn’t explain.
They said, “She’s creative,”
but it wasn’t art,
it was her mind trying not to fall apart.
Oh, Anastasha,
the mirror’s getting thin,
you look inside and someone else
is looking back again.
She smiled like she believed it,
though her eyes were rimmed with sleep,
and her body carried secrets
that her soul could never keep.
Little Anastasha wasn’t little anymore,
and the monsters in her mind
sat gathered at her door.
They asked to come inside —
she said, “You’re already home.”
The floorboards sighed, the windows moaned,
and she stopped sleeping all alone.
She mixed her thoughts with potions,
with promises and pills,
told herself it’s better than
the nightmares that won’t still.
Said, “I’m not crazy, just awake,”
but the dawn began to ache,
and she’d watch the sunrise shiver
as her hands began to shake.
Every morning felt like mourning,
every night a quiet scream,
and in between the ticking clocks
she lost her chance to dream.
Neighbors heard her pacing,
counting steps in crooked rhyme,
a girl with too much memory
and not enough of time.
Miss Anastasha,
you built your house of thoughts,
each brick a sleepless night,
each window what you lost.
And when the wind came howling,
it spoke in your old tone,
saying, “Come outside, Anastasha —
you’ve been too long alone.”
She lit her candles, ten or twelve,
and prayed to something not herself.
But nothing answered, nothing stirred,
just echoes of her final word:
“I’m tired.”
The curtains closed like eyelids,
the walls exhaled her name,
and in that fragile silence,
she gave herself away.
Now they say the house still hums,
a quiet rhythm, soft and numb.
The floorboards creak like lullabies,
and something whispers when night dies.
“Anastasha, Dawn,” it sighs again,
“Did you ever find the end?”
Let me tell you a story —
about a girl who lost her mind.
She wasn’t evil, she wasn’t kind,
just tired of being left behind.
The world forgot her name one day,
but her echo learned to stay.
And if you listen, soft and slow,
you’ll hear her story —
down below.

08 Story Time (Part I) [Draft]

Aspire To Inspire