This is what her happy place looked like.
A garden of some sort, where the sun always shone and everything was at peace. The trees would dance in the wind making a sound that soothes the soul. There are no bugs to bite you. There is nothing to hurt you. You hear the chiming of bells, as if the faeries that didn't exist were talking to you. You can smell the beautiful flowers that only bloom in this enchanted place. A stream flows gently, it's crystal waters a lovely sight to see. And in all the middle of this, a girls sits.
A girl with hair as bright as the sunshine itself and a dress as white as the clouds that roll by. She lays in the grass with no bugs that will bite you and watches the trees dance in the wind listening to the the sound that soothes the soul. She almost looks dead as she lays still with skin so white she might as well be a ghost. And that she is.
She is a ghost of someone. A shadow. She can not feel emotions, only pain. Pain from being alone for so long. But the pain is gone. Now she is in her happy place, with the dancing trees and the chiming bells and the beautiful flowers and the flowing stream. Her story has been told, and now it is here to end. She takes a deep breath in so she can smell the sweet scent of the flowers and the grass that grows so high.
Sometimes she sees memories. Memories that are not hers, for she doesn't recall playing on a beach where the sun shines so brightly it makes the water shine. Sometimes she sheds a tear. Not her tear, for she doesn't recall ever being able to cry. And sometimes she gets up out of her spot where it is warm from her laying there the whole time, and explores. She explores her happy place.
She walks gracefully like a ballerina. So gracefully that you can barely hear her feet against the grass with no bugs that will bite you. She sits at the edge of the stream, he feet barely touching the water, and draws. She draws sunsets of red, orange, and yellow, and afternoons of bright blue. She draws her happy place sometimes, and sometimes she draws what's on her mind. Now she is drawing the end. The end of her story that she will never tell to anyone, for it is to special that she keeps it in a jar.
She picks up the jar with her story, and places one last picture folded perfectly in it. She closes the lid for the last time, and sets it gently into the stream. She watches it go with stream, bumping against rocks occasionally, until it is out of sight, and she begins a new story. A story in her happy place, where the trees would dance in the wind and where you hear the chiming of bells and where the stream that carries her story flows gently.
And in her happy place, she can smile.