There's a book where your story was written and and read, where your name was woven in with others and loved, where simple embelishment was commonplace. But on a morning wind, cold and angry, the fate that was written was shattered by your hand and the love that wove itself in and around your name recoiled at the action. It was after that you saw that it was not freely given and a fight against a destiny meant a rewrite of the script. Now your name is no longer written, and the ties that were are discarded in haste. As time moves forward, the hand moves backwards and your name becomes an ink spot or coffee stain. From time to time, other pens touch the page with your name but it never goes further than a sentence or two. Lost in jumble of a history of a different course, your only option is to open another book, white pages pure and untouched, and begin to carefully give the name a new home. Only after starting a line or two do you realize that there are smudges on your page. And as you look at the ink, dark and different, swirling in the patterns of your own handprint, you feel a bittersweet comfort knowing that a bit of the book that spawned your name has found its way into a new history. Maybe in time the stains on your hand will fade and each day will start truly fresh and free.