Anne Frank sat at the small writing desk in her room. Her diary open to a blank page and a fountain pen in her hand. It had been nearly two years since she received her diary back on her 13th birthday… one of the very last memories she has in her home… and it's been nearly two years since her family had gone into hiding in the Secret Annex… the Annex where she wrote her diary…
Her diary; her one true friend; 'Kitty' as she called it. To Anne, writing was important to her. It was her way of venting her problems, her frustrations, her worries, and most of all her fears… but combined with all of that, was both hopefulness, beauty, and peace. When she wrote, whether it be a random short story, or a diary entry, she always felt most at peace. When she wrote, gripping the pen between her fingers, she felt all her worries and fears disappear. When she wrote… she felt free…