Never was
Like her drawings she was scattered with the winds.
There was a girl who could often be seen standing atop the deserted building at the end of the street.
From her thin fingers pieces of paper were tugged by the winds, and she let them go, she let them float softly down to the streets below. She scattered her drawings like pollen with the wind, so that where they might land imagination might grow. She stood alone, atop her apartment building, wind blowing her corn silk hair everywhere; goose bumps rising all over from the chilling wind, as her light, white summer dress was no protection from the cold.
She stood there, watching her dreams scatter, till she could see them no more, then she went back down, inside to create the pieces for tomorrow. It was a vicious cycle of given up dreams, and fading memories.
Black cloaked figures; A tall intimidating man with pink hair; A blond baby-faced boy; A brunette with blue eyes like the sky.
She didn't know what these dreams and visions meant but she drew them anyway and then set the pictures free, never knowing where they ended up. A vague hope in the back of her mind that they'd somehow reach someone who'd understand.
She was an art school dropout; her pretty little head was always in the clouds. She moved from partner to partner; no one able to stand her for too long. She always seemed innocent. She was too meek. She was a pale, unwanted wallflower.
And when she was gone she wouldn't be remembered. She never was.
There's a tale of a girl in white, who stands upon an older apartment building, silent, still. And if you're there for long enough something might flutter down to you: A drawing.