.. And she completed a century of those  scribbles. Those hundred letters that she penned had her whole life in words, in letters. Her dreams, her wins, her losses but more importantly her emotional rise over these years. Initially when she began inking them, all she would addred's was to her father. No sooner did she realise that he never wanted her than she changed her 'adressed' to " Dear Someone". Those pieces confided in clear envslopes were never posted. They just acted like her counterpart, her teddy bear, her silent partner.  All they didn't and of course couldn't do was to revert back.Her seek for answers to her questions, for the lost warmth, for the lost confidence,  never ended. Reasons to break down almost killed her within, whatever least that was left, was the people she had in front of her, who she was the spine of. Survival took over ife in her case. She shared things with people who apparently were hers .However, none of them could squeeze out what was within, unsaid. The problems obviously had solutions but never a hand to face them alongwith..
Now, when she's beginning with yet another century, she's unhopeful for things to change. She's going to walk furthur, with her staunch feet but worn out heart, till the time her people are settled enough to live without her, happily....