She came here often to tell them the story, and they always listened. She had been coming here for years, more often than she could remember, but slightly less than what seemed like forever. She sat on an aged marble bench even as her back cracked, leaning her gnarled walking stick against her legs and once again looking out over the children that had gathered before her, patiently waiting. With tufts of gray hair sticking wild from beneath her cap, she rubbed her hands together as she remembered the times that came before. Back to another time, when she sat before a fire just as old as she felt now, telling stories to the gathered crowds. She remembered that, if naught else. She remembered the stories to tell, though now they were told for a different reason.