The queen had warm hands as she held mine.

With dreamy loving eyes, she asked a poor, dirtied child like me to come home with her. 

At first, I wondered why. But the greed to live somewhere warmer, more beautiful held me. 

I thought, maybe I would be loved. 

Then I had met the nine princes, her sons who were nowhere like their mother.

I had suffered, and I was tormented. Choosing to take the queen's hand must've been my greatest mistake. 

I grew ill when I turned 17. My chambers became what the closest to the warmth of a being was.  

Before my last breaths, I saw them smile; I saw them laugh at my misery. 

In turn, I wanted to curse at them. Let them feel what I felt for so long. 

Let them suffer. 

As I closed my eyes, there was a light that blinded through me. Then I opened them again, 

With petite fingers and the body of a child,

I had gone back in time.