It was raining the day we had returned, yet no amount of rain could ever wash away what has happened those years ago. When built on the wrong foundations, things crumbled, as I always knew, and, yet, I've pitied them both but what of us and those involved? Like theirs, when their lives crumbled, so did ours and, to save ourselves, we were given no choice, so we fled, hiding away, waiting. Waiting for what? I do not know but I know we waited.

I remember not how long it had been since the secretary took us and we escaped but I can reflect on the years before. She's gone now and only us remain. I remember them well up until our escape from the dreaded place. My little sisters have grown and one is almost blind. They have such very little recollection, yet I have the most. We are here, now, looking off into the distance of that ruined house, the house where it all began, the house that she, a victim of her own madness, torched, hoping it'll all burn, yet the wreckage survived and the story remained, for some time, yet untold, until now.