A old man sits at a table and dips his pen in ink. His face is withered with old age and his hair is a grisly mess about him though he does not care any more. The days the women flocked to Venice to catch a glimpse of him are long past, yet that does not bother him.

'I have enough stories to last a lifetime and that's all I need' the man thinks as he dips his pen to ink. His body quivers with the chill of the winter that is creeping in, yet his hand never wavers from the parchment before him. He always knew he must write it.

The one story that had been nagging at him all these years to write. He had been too young and free to write it after she left. Though she was always there at the back of his mind waiting for her story to be told. He tried to push her out of his mind even though everything in the house reminded him of her.

The paintings on the walls Lupo said she painted, the stories Lupo told of her. She never came back for any of her belongings and she didn't need them. Though her room stood as if it never left awaiting the return of it's owner. It was almost as though she never left.

He knew now she was a important person in the lives of all the people of Venice. Only one person knew how important she was all along and she ran away with him he thinks to himself.

"I'm sorry I wasn't the one for you Giovanni. I know you loved me, but sometimes you just got to hold your head up high, wipe away the tears, and say she wasn't the one. There will be someone else" she told him so long ago.

"I never will" he had replied fearlessly. She had shaken her head vigorously.

"Don't you dare long for anyone from the past. There is a reason why they never made it to your future" she insisted.

"Promise me Giovanni you'll find someone else. I found mine, promise me you'll find yours" she had cried grabbing his hand strongly. He nodded not able to look her in the face for the tears clouding his vision.

"You got to admit you have the best occupation you could have for finding that girl" she had laughed gaily looking behind her to share a look with Giacimo.

He had found that woman after twenty years of being Casanova. He never told her of Abigail fore Casanova's heart was a vast ocean. Abigail was a different kind of woman and he still heard whispers in the streets of her.

For she was one the town of Venice never forgot. But they had it all wrong. She never seeked to be a great lover like Casanova and contrary to the rumors she never was.

She was never a whore as was the rumor paraded in streets for a long while after she left. She was an actress. And a right fine one at that the old man chuckles to himself.

She was a funny sarcastic girl that knew someday she would die and she hoped that the world would come to remember her for who she was. She was Abigail Ganstella.