I was there, as I always was, when it happened. When her life would steer in an imperfect storm full of sorrow, loss, injustice, and longing to simply belong.

Through it all, I'm glad that Winter had at least one friend after this horrific event. She would need her for a long time, maybe even forever. I was heavy throughout this certain period, and could not be a reliable source for her grief. No, not when my boss was incapable of generating practical and logical ideas and actions. Not when it constantly hallucinated with visions of what remained of her already cremated father, or the endless fields of possibilities with the shoulda, coulda, and woulda's with him.

************************ A small fact about me ****************************

I don't crack in half as humans say when I'm "broken."

I simply ache a little more and beat professedly a little less.

I can only tell you her part of the story, with a little bit of mine.

She vividly remembered the strong, thick rope that had no mercy in strangling her father around his neck.

She tasted bitterness where there was once sweetness.

She heard the everlasting laughs that arose with the crackling fire and the horrid sounds of the whips.

She smelled the aftermath of fire against flesh, apples, and trees.

She saw the fire colliding harshly against the flesh, creeping it's way towards what was once the beautiful leaves of the trees, and the burnt black apples that were once red and green.

I felt the heavy burden of those wretched cracks as if it was cracking me also.

How did she see all of this?

Behind the mob full of sweat, white robes and hats, pure evil, and cruelty, she stood.

It only happened a block away from their house.

Winter stood even when the mob left. Of course, she hid behind the bushes so that she wouldn't be like the remains of her father. After they all left and the sun decided it wanted to rise after the fall of her father, she couldn't help but itch a little closer.

And closer.

And closer.

She inspected him. Or, excuse my manners, his shell. Because if I had to be honest with you, it wasn't him. Surely, this wasn't the same person who called her "baby girl" in the mornings and whispered "sweet dreams" in the midnight hour. This was not the same man that held no bitterness in his heart even when his country consistently whispered in his ear to do so. This was not the same person that slaved his way from the black side of Luna Hills towards the white side, working for people who could have their way with him in a millisecond.

Eventually, they did.

What got Winter - and me - the most was the way he died.

He didn't deserve to die. Winter thought.

I love you, Papa. I thought.

It was at that moment with a harsh slap of reality that we both knew:

Evret Hayle would have a special place within us. He was our most cherished person in all of Alabama. In the whole wide world even.

In years to come, someone would come close to that title.

Someone who was on the winning side of Jim Crow America's war.

Okay so, this is my new story that I've had small visions and bits and pieces on for forever! After rereading the book thief, keeping in mind that this is black history month, and having this idea for so long, I've finally been able to type it down. I've been having writer's block for the past month or so, so I'm really glad this came out decent. As for you great readers who decide to read this prologue, who do you think the narrator throughout the story is, judging from this? The narrator will constantly give you hints, and if you read the book thief, you'd have some idea of my peculiar format and narrator. Please, feel free to like and follow this story, and send me some comments with ideas on who the narrator might be :).