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Birthdays were seldom something to be celebrated.
No, for Anne, they merely marked another year since she’d stolen her father’s muse away, became nothing more than a shoddy replacement, not even half the lady her mother was. Another year her father had been so gracious as to spare her life, loosening his grip on her neck seconds before Anne stopped breathing altogether, only to leave her in a crumpled heap beneath the portrait of a ghost she could never resurrect. Another year closer to the inevitable end of this suffering, when Death himself came to claim her weary soul, cradling its weight in his arms more lovingly than Life ever had.
If he hadn’t reminded her, burned it into her skull every November it rolled around, Anne suspects she would’ve forgotten the date altogether.
Not that she hadn’t tried to, since they’d parted ways. Using every trick in the book she could find to purge the memory from her brain, attempting to change the important into something insignificant, something forgettable . But it was no use. Her father had done too much damage, broken something deep within her psyche that no amount of distractions or remedies could ever mitigate. Sometimes, as silly as Anne knew it was, she believed he’d cursed her. Casted a hex so powerful, not even divine intervention could do anything to break it.
A feeble attempt to tie herself to the fair maidens that graced the pages of her storybooks, even now.
Though none of them could have done what Anne had, could have pushed themselves to the brink of ruin, risen up from the ashes they’d been burned to and become something stronger. Where their salvation had been found in charismatic princes and merciful fairy godmothers, hers had been found in the wooden husk of a toy shop and a carving knife. While their hands remained soft, unblemished by the realities of life, hers were hardened, speckled with scars that’d never completely fade. While they never harbored grudges against those who’d wronged them, Anne’s festered, like acid eating its way down to the bone.
Maybe if she’d been more like them, the invitation would’ve been meaningless, nothing more than a scrap of junk mail to throw out with the rest.
But its sender promised Anne answers, knowledge that she’d give everything short of her life itself to possess, about those who’d forced her here in the first place. Opening a toy shop had always been a dream of hers, sure. Named after her mother as a way to honor her, perhaps the only reason Anne was still alive at all. Being forced to for survival, however, sucked more joy out of the process than she cared to admit. With nobody to assist her, save for an occasional consultation with her financial advisor, Anne had done everything on her own. And while that was a feat in itself, she’d wanted it to be her choice .
Getting revenge on whoever robbed that from her felt a nobler cause than any she’d ever devoted herself to.
So packing things away it was. Saying goodbye to this shop, even temporarily, was more painful than Anne had expected it to be. Memories filled almost every corner they could, threatened to spill over the edges of countertops, burst through the doors of her closet. Gifts from the local children, thanking Anne for her kindness, from their parents doing the same. Fragments of toys whose prototypes hadn’t gone the way she’d planned, paint jobs just a tad too smudged for sale, pieces of herself she refused to throw away. Remnants of the little girl she’d once been, who coveted fairy tales as if they were bibles, each line another prayer.
In the end, Anne settled on nothing more than a single suitcase to bring, though she would’ve brought it all if she could’ve.
All that was left to do was leave. Letter clutched tightly in her hand - already crinkled from hours spent reading and rereading it, as if the words on the page would disappear, should she look away for too long - Anne roamed across the floorboards like a ghost, checking to make sure everything was in order. No oil lamps left burning, no doors left unlocked, no fraying threads threatening to unravel the string that held her shop’s notice aloft. Taking a deep breath, Anne made her way outside, not before knocking the calendar she always kept by her backdoor onto the floor, catching a glimpse of the date.
November 29th.
Anne almost couldn’t believe her eyes, had to blink a few times before it could fully register. Only then did she let out a chuckle, breaking off into a sob before she could stop it. Of all the days she could’ve picked to leave, it seemed like something akin to fate that it’d coincidentally fall on her birthday . How many years had her father spent on that very day, plucking at the strings that bound her to him, reminding her that she’d never be free. How many years had she spent believing his lies, accepting them as a truth no amount of work could ever change, head bowed to him in submission.
How many years had she spent longing for something like this, a chance to step past the threshold of her old life and into a new one, where an endless world of possibilities awaited her.
Suddenly the air smelled sweeter, the lingering remnants of the bakers last dozen mixing with the beginnings of the morning dew to become a concoction more irresistible than she’d ever known, stars twinkling that much brighter in the sky. It was as if Anne were seeing the world for the first time, really seeing it, in the way it was always meant to be seen. No longer did dread cast a dark shadow over everything, veiling the full extent of its beauty from view. Anne felt alive, more than she’d ever been, in all twenty-four years she’d been on this Earth.
Free, at long last.