There lived in a forest of poplars a witch who bewitched all who gazed upon her with a deadly charm. Men fell for her lush lips, which were vivid against the snowy white of her face. Her deep, round eyes bore in their cast the resplendent rays of golden sunshine. Yet it was mere illusion: the delusions of a people obsessed with pursuits pertaining to the flesh. Then there wandered into her haunt a man, confused and exhausted, and he looked full into her gaze and lived to tell the tale.

Between this world and the next exists a special world. It's a dimension of life phantom in nature yet one very real. Access to it is granted only on certain occasions and the times of admission are brief windows lasting mere seconds. The stay in that world depends on how long the soul braves to stay there, because in all honesty, it is a terrifying country. It is Arco, the other world, the world of the inbetween.

She came at the time of vulnerability, when Wendy wanted something more out of life. She brought tidings of a world beyond and Wendy took it to heart. She had a name; she was Irene.