A young girl crept down the carpeted stairs nimbly, as quiet as a mouse. Her face was stony and lacking any sign of childhood’s innocence, despite her youth. She was small, but possessed the sharpness of someone far beyond her age. Her clothing was ragged and filthy, but her short brown hair framed her face in a seemingly orderly manner. The girl stopped at the foot of the staircase, her dark eyes darting about the room. Not a soul was awake, and the house was deathly silent. With a trembling hand, the girl struck a match and lit a candle. The room was instantly illuminated by its flickering glow. The timber bookshelves lined with dusty books appeared ancient in the forlorn room. She tiptoed towards the bookshelf, and found herself removing the same book as always. It was the book of poetry she had treasured for years; the very one her mother had read to her as a child. The little girl opened her satchel and dropped the book in, grimacing as it clattered loudly against the silver candlesticks she had taken from the bedroom upstairs. A door creaked open loudly upstairs, followed by a sequence of footsteps. The girl froze instantly, then darted out the door without a further thought. All that was left was an empty space in the bookshelf. The child’s lean figure disappeared into the darkness of the night… And the house was silent once more.