A word from the author:

Dear you,

First, if anyone decided to open this book, Ms. Leora would like to remind you that this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and any situations are only product of the author's insufferable imagination. (It's a problem most of the time) No toxic traits of people she hardly know is tolerated, so do shut the book and the goddammed door before she lose her poise and rationality to deal with these kind of things. And please, no promises of butterflies and rainbows on it's end are kept. She didn't make a single of it, so brokenhearts and swollen eyes are not in any of Ms. Leora's faults. She also wants you to know that she's not quite sure about the editting of this thing she calls a novel, but she tried her best.

She would like you to know that she wrote this to somehow make herself feel better, to at least make someone understand the things she couldn't explain with her mouth. Things that pops in her head everytime she wash the dishes or when she take a shower. Things that bothered her for sometime first thing in the morning. Things that she, herself, wished that she knew first hand.

She hope it served it's purpose to you like it did to her.

And another thing, if you are curious when is the timeline of this story, do not ask beyond on what you read. If it says 1800s, then it happened in 1800s. Ms. Leora don't do the freaking Math. (Yet if someone might want to do it for her, she will love you to Tartarus and back.)

Author,

Leora Sax Zacdenorre.