Memories pure as stardust.

Rapunzel has barely any memories of the world outside but she thinks she must have, because she dreams, sometimes, of things so startlingly vivid that her sight and skin must remember them from somewhere.

Bright and lovely and spacious things, the sense of them pure as stardust. Beds with canopies of intricate lace. Dolls like oriental fantasies, meticulously detailed, smelling like mint ans tea and cut bamboo. Silver diadems with jewels cool to touch. Things that simply do not fit in life in the tower, cannot squeeze in between the walls and the window and chores and chameleons and the fog of her mundane existence.

She paints them, as ethereal stories on the walls of her room, in the eternal spirit of optimism, as if to convince herself that they were real. She glances towards them when she cannot sleep, when the nights seems to still in yawning emptiness compared to the day, when the sun seems to sing especially for her tales of another epoch, of other girls and other creeds.

These nights, she watches then the star-speckled sky for a sign. Unaware that, meanwhile, far away, an entire kingdom lights its lanterns for her.