It's been a year since the fires destroyed her family and her world, and Green knows it is up to her to help her friends and her village survive and heal.

It's been a year since the fires destroyed the city. Some who survived still live there, defying the Horde who set the fires, demanding that the survivors return to an earlier time, before lights or trains or libraries or schools, when men worked in the fields with simple tools, and women were shut inside their homes, cooking and cleaning and raising children, knowing little of the outside world. 

Green, who watched the fires from her farm across the river, has begun to set aside her sorrow, and build a new life. Her garden grows again, and she is able to help feed her neighbors who cannot make their gardens grow. Lights now flicker in the village, powered by generators run by hand. There are stoves and iceboxes, windmills and medicine kits. 

The villagers come to her looking for food, for advice, for help. And they come to her to tell their stories, because they know she is a writer. She wrote first upon herself, covering herself with tattooos, and when she was finished, she had more stories to tell. So she found paper and ink, and began to tell the stories of her life, her family, her friends. She ran out of ink and paper, learned how to make her own, and continued her stories. When the villagers found out she was a writer, they began to come to her to tell their stories, about their lives, their families, their mistakes, and the world that they remember. 

That world has changed forever, and is a different, sadder place, and people are afraid to trust.  Enemies are everywhere, ready to attack. Green knows that knowledge is the only way to trust, and that knowledge is found in stories that explain the people that lived them. Perhaps that is the way to find out the ending to her own story-to help others tell theirs. So she leaves her home and her farm, to find the stories that need to be told, and the people who need to tell them.

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