She took a long drag of her cigarette before extending her thumb to the blur of speeding traffic racing past her, the headlights of the passing cars making her long, blonde curls glow like a beacon in the darkness.

They say that 'Nothing happens until something moves'. Cause and effect, crime and punishment, motive and result. Though not always direct, an outcome from an action is inevitable.

That be the case, maybe Anna-Elizabeth Sawyer wouldn't be standing alone on the curb of a busy highway if she hadn't broken the green ceramic vase in the basement. And everything that had happened between now and the vase would have been different. Maybe if she had gone to the store to buy light bulbs, instead of looking down in the basement, she wouldn't have had to plan her grandfather's funeral earlier that week. Maybe if she had remembered to change the light bulb in her lamp before it burned out, she wouldn't have found that old box of letters, which completely and utterly altered everything she had believed for the past nine years.

But for every action-the cause-, there is an unavoidable reaction-the effect.

She was brushing her hair when the lamp burned out.

"There should be some extra bulbs in the basement," Grandpa Larry said, from his usual spot on the couch.

She never went into the basement. The basement is where they kept her mother's things, the things her grandfather didn't have the heart to throw away. If she had a say in the matter, her mother's belongings would be rotting in a landfill somewhere.

She always liked that her mother had named her Anna-Elizabeth, after two apparently influential women in her mother's life. Anna-Elizabeth was her name, but her mother had called her simply 'Elle'. Four perfect little letters, forward and backward. She had a beautiful fascination with her name as a young child, scribbling E-L-L-E in big , loopy crayon letters on every single picture she colored; each one she gave to her mother, and only her mother.

It had been a few months since anybody had been in the basement. The air was heavy with dust, making Elle cough repeatedly. She spent several minutes moving boxes around the floor, clearing a path to a large cobweb-covered storage shelf on the far side of the room, her fingers leaving prints on the dusty boxes.

When she reached the shelf, she saw it-a small box of light bulbs behind a chipped, hideously green ceramic vase and a dirty old shoebox. Elle extended her thin arm past the vase, reaching for the light bulbs, but her elbow tipped the vase off of the shelf, causing it to shatter on the cement floor, a cloud of dust erupting up around the shards of ceramic pieces.

Elle cursed quietly, quickly gathering the broken pieces into a small pile on the floor. Thinking that the dirty old shoebox would be a good place to store the broken vase, she reached for it, opening the lid to see what was inside.

Elle, however, wasn't remotely prepared for what she found. This dusty and dingy shoebox contained a stack of about nine letters, all addressed to her.

"What the hell…?" Elle muttered, immediately forgetting about the broken vase at her feet. She reached for the first letter in the pile, opening it gingerly, not wanting to rip the envelope. She noticed that the date at the top of the flowery stationary was from about five years ago. Her eyes widened as she quickly read over the words, her heart thumping forcefully in her chest as she read it again, and again once more.

Dear Elle,

I'm not sure if you remember who I am, but I was your mother's very best friend, and I used to come and stay with you and your grandpa when things would get bad with your mom. I know that I haven't been in touch, and I apologize, I never wanted to leave you, or your mom. Maybe you will understand when you are older, but for now, all I can say is that I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I grew up resenting a woman who abandoned me, and I never want you to feel that way about me. I also want to make it very clear that your mom didn't abandon you either. She loved you, Elle, more than I've ever seen her love anything in the world. Your mother was sick. She was ill, and none of that was your fault. She merely succumbed to her disease, something you, I, or anyone else shouldn't resent her for. You are beautiful and strong, Elle, and I know you are going to be brave and get through the heartache this whole mess has caused. I always loved you as my own child, and I hope to see you again someday. If you ever need anything, or just want to come for a visit, my door is always open to you. Take care, sweetheart.

Love, Brooke Davis-Baker

Then

"Momma," Elle said worriedly, as her mother stumbled into the kitchen. The sudden smell of alcohol made the six-year-old scrunch her nose in distaste. "Momma, why are you acting funny?"

"I'm not." Peyton Sawyer said dryly, looking at her daughter through heavy, drunken eyes. "You don't know what you're talking about,"

It had been a week since Peyton Sawyer-Cassidy had to put her husband in the ground. John Cassidy was not only the love of her life, but the man who rescued her from a very broken heart five years ago, after she thought she would never, ever love again. A car accident ended his life, a head-on collision in a treacherous rainstorm.

"I miss daddy too, momma," Elle said gently, as Peyton drunkenly walked over to the table at which Elle sat.

"He wasn't even your real father," Peyton slurred, "God, my life is such a mess,"

Elle's bottom lip trembled as Peyton stumbled out of the kitchen and into the living room. Brooke quickly rushed into the kitchen, kneeling down in front of Elle.

"Daddy wasn't my real daddy?" Elle asked, her big blue eyes filling with tears.

"That's right sweetie," Brooke said softly, "Your daddy adopted you when you were only a year old."

"But why?" Elle asked

"You know how it takes a mommy and a daddy to make a baby?" Brooke said, as Elle nodded. "Well sometimes the daddy can't be in the baby's life, so he has to let another daddy to the job instead."

"So that's what daddy did?" Elle said, the tears disappearing from her eyes. "He took the job?"

"You bet he did." Brooke grinned, "Just because he didn't help create you doesn't mean he isn't your daddy. He didn't love you any less."

"Okay, good," Elle grinned, showing her missing front teeth. "I still miss him, even though Grandpa Larry said he only went to heaven,"

"You're right, he did go to heaven. That's why your mommy is so sad, Elle." Brooke said, "She misses your daddy so much. She didn't mean to be nasty to you."

"I hope so," Elle replied. Brooke looked up as Peyton reappeared in the kitchen, sorrowful tears running down her face.

"Mommy's sorry," Peyton said, kneeling down next to Brooke, pulling Elle into her arms. "So sorry,"

Now

There were very few times in her life when Elle had been this angry. It was the kind of angry that made her shoulders tense up, made her organs tremble, and made her jaw clench. She stomped up the basement stairs, the box of letters in one hand, a clenched fist in the other.

"When were you going to tell me that she was writing to me?" Elle demanded, throwing the dusty box of letters on the couch cushion next to her grandfather.

"Elle," Larry Sawyer began slowly, turning his TV program off. Larry didn't always waste his day away in front of the television; he once had been a strong, successful man with a loving wife and beautiful, bright-eyed daughter. But that was a long time ago. Life had taken its toll on Larry Sawyer, his hair had grayed too early, he tired too easily. Pain was never an unfamiliar feeling to him, but pain was still pain, and it was still painful, no matter how many times he had felt it. He was a broken man. Larry Sawyer watched television all day, an easy escape from the lifetime of sorrow and regret that constantly clung to his insides.

"You had no right to hide these. They were mine," Elle said, her voice slowly rising, "I can't believe you would do this to me, especially after everything we've been through!"

"You listen to me," Larry slowly stood up, his old knees creaking, "I was only trying to protect you. To keep you from your mom's painful past."

"But they were mine!" Elle shouted, "I hated that woman for never staying in touch after she stopped visiting. I resented her every day. When really the person I should be resenting right now is-"

Before Elle could finish what she was going to say, Larry began to gasp for air, clutching his chest with both hands. Elle rushed over to him as he fell to his knees, doubling over in pain.

"Grandpa, Grandpa! Oh, god!" She cried, "What's happening to you?"

"I-ca-can't-breathe!" he gasped, rolling onto his back.

"Oh, god, oh, god," her hands shook violently as she pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. She hastily punched in the numbers before bringing the cell phone to her ear. "Yeah, hi, I need an ambulance!"

Then

"Momma, who is my real daddy?" seven year old Elle asked, twirling a strand of her blonde curls around her finger.

"Your real daddy," Peyton said, taking a swig of the glass of gin in her hand, "didn't want to be a part of my family."

"But why?" Elle asked, as persistent as any young child looking for answers.

"Oh, my God, Elle," Peyton said, covering her face in annoyance, "stop asking me all these damn questions,"

Elle slunk out of the living room and into the kitchen, where her grandpa Larry was working on fixing the broken toaster. "Grandpa, why isn't my real daddy part of momma's family?"

Larry gently placed the toaster on the counter and patted his knee; Elle recognizing the gesture as an invitation to sit on his lap. She sat on his thighs as he supported her back with his left hand. "Sometimes parents don't always stay married. Sometimes they don't even get married at all. Remember when your friend Ginger, from down the street, had to move to a new neighborhood because her mommy and daddy got a divorce?"

"Yes," Elle nodded

"It's kind of like that, except your real daddy never lived here at all." Larry concluded, giving Elle a pat on the back. "Do you understand?"

"Why is momma so sad all the time?" She asked innocently,

"Your mom has a disease, a sickness, that makes her sad all the time. It's called Manic Depression. It's very serious, and you need to be extra nice to her, even when she is being nasty to you. It's not her fault, it's just the sickness."

"How can she get better?" Elle's big eyes were wide with concern.

"Well, sweetheart, your mom is going to have to go away for a little while. She's going to go on a little vacation for a few weeks to get better. And Brooke's going to be here to stay with you until your mom's better." Larry said, as Elle gasped.

"I don't want momma to go away!" She cried, "I want her to stay here!"

"She can't stay here, honey, not until she's better again. You want your mom to get better, don't you?" Larry asked, as Elle looked at her feet.

"Yes," she said sadly, "more than anything,"

Now

Elle had been to this hospital in Los Angeles many times before. The first time, she was five, after breaking her wrist on the school playground. A few years later, however, she began coming for a different reason. The psychiatric ward always made Elle feel uneasy and scared, but Brooke made sure that she never missed the twice a week visits they made to see her mother. Each time they would walk in through the hospital doors, Elle always watched the sad, worried people seated in the waiting room chairs, waiting for news on their loved ones. Even at her young age, Elle had understood what those people were waiting for, she remembered her mother discussing her fear of waiting rooms with Brooke one day.

"Ever since my mom died," she had said, "They have always been a place where bad, terrible things happen. All those times, all the accidents…Nathan, Lucas, Haley, Karen, and now John...,"

After hearing that conversation, Elle had decided that waiting rooms were a bad, terrible place, too. Each time they would pass the waiting room, she clung to Brooke's hand a little tighter, studying the distressed people in the chairs.

She had always hated waiting rooms because her mother had hated them. But now, as she sat here, Elle realized just why they had been so distressing. They said he had suffered a massive heart attack, and was currently in surgery. It had been exactly one hour, forty-seven minutes, and twenty-one seconds since she had taken her seat here in the waiting room.

Her fingernails dug into her palms as she waited, anxiety twisting her insides into knots, counting each individual second as they continued to tick by, in slow motion.

She stood up when the scrub-clad surgeon slowly made his way over to her, a sullen look on his sweaty face. He was accompanied by a small woman in a white coat, who had a clipboard in her hands.

"We did everything we could," The surgeon said, as the woman in the white coat put her hand on Elle's shoulder.

Elle went numb, she did not cry, she did not scream. She didn't feel sad, or shocked or angry. She felt nothing, nothing at all.

"I'm so sorry," the woman rubbed circle's on Elle's back. Elle didn't feel them.

"Can I see him?" She finally said, her voice sounded strange- low and flat.

"Of course," The woman doctor said, leading Elle out of the waiting room.

It wasn't the first dead body she had ever seen. She studied him carefully, as lay there on the metal table, his body draped by a white sheet. He didn't look dead; he looked more like he was asleep, as though he had merely drifted off while watching one of his television programs. He didn't look dead.

Before she realized what she was doing, Elle had raced over to a small trash can in the corner of the room, where she was horribly, violently, sick.

***

The funeral had been small, thrown together in only two days, some of Larry's old friends from his dredging days had showed up, and some of her mother's old doctors. Elle didn't realize how much her family had isolated themselves from other people until she realized that there wasn't really anyone for her to call. Sure, she could have called her friends from high school, but all she would have gotten was a few moments of their pity before they moved on to the next exciting thing that was happening in Los Angeles.

She had turned eighteen a few months prior to Larry Sawyer's sudden death, and made the choice to deal with everything-the paperwork, the body, the organs, the house- herself.

The numbness in her chest still hadn't gone away, she couldn't feel the grief she knew she so well. She didn't cry-she wouldn't cry.

It wasn't until after the ceremony when she noticed that Brooke's letters still sat there on the couch. Memories of the past few days began to play through her mind like a film being fast-forwarded. Then suddenly, she felt something. A rush or adrenaline erupted in her chest as she quickly gathered the letters in her arms, before hastily throwing them into an old beat up duffel bag, stuffing some clothes, her laptop computer, and a handful of cash into the bag as well.

She bought the first bus ticket out of Los Angeles, replaying the words of Brooke's letter in her head, over and over again.

"If you ever need anything, or just want to come for a visit, my door is always open to you. Take care, sweetheart."

She only had enough money to make it to Texas.

She stood on the curb of a highway somewhere outside of Dallas, her bag over her shoulder and her cigarette calming her nerves. Maybe if she had grabbed some more money, she wouldn't be hitchhiking her way to Tree Hill, North Carolina.

No matter how many 'what-ifs' or 'Maybes' she played in her head, the cause to this effect wouldn't change. Anna-Elizabeth Sawyer's life was, once again, turned completely upside down, all because of that stupid, ugly, green ceramic vase.