I was alive. But I was alive without a memory, without a name; I was cut off from hope as well as from remorse or regret. I had no past and would probably have no future; I was buried alive in a void which was the wound that had been dealt me. I was like the wound itself.

And suddenly, as he noted the fine shades of manner by which she harmonized herself with her surroundings, it flashed on him that, to need such adroit handling, the situation must indeed be desperate.

Sturdy branches break to regrow instead of bending down to storms that cause destruction.

I was tired of secrets, tired of seeing things I was not supposed to see. And so I just cried.

Written By John Grisham

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