There was a house on the hill, they said. A little house, nothing much to speak of. But, if you walked up the path, you would come to its door.
If you knocked on the door, no one would answer. But, rest assured, they said. Rest assured, she would be there.
If you were quiet, oh so quiet, and you slipped up the stairs, you would find her in the second room. Hair wild and unkept, eyes full of sadness, but a beauty nonetheless. She would be sitting at the window, watching. For what? No one really knew. But, she would be watching.
She wouldn't speak. She never did. But, she would know you were there, and her eyes always said more than any words ever could have. So, you would sit and your eyes would grow wet with the unshed tears of hers. She was like that. You wanted to feel what she couldn't walk away from.
When evening came, she would forget you were there. She would rise from her window, and she would descend her stairs. She would open the front door and she would step out into the moonlight.
And she would sing. Not for you... no, never for you. She sang for herself. She sang for the wind. She sang for the moon.
But, you would cry all the same.