She saw them when she wept, when she was angry, when she felt like dying. They knew her and loved her and whispered her name when she felt lost and hurt. They sang and laughed and cried with her and none of them were real.

One sat beside her on the bed and held her hand, another gave her long hugs, and another kissed her on the cheek. Some were villains and murderers and cruel, some were sweet and gentlemanly and adoring, and some were somewhere inbetween.

A deranged, brokenhearted god who had fallen from grace cried with her. A man outcast and thought dead by all wiped her tears away. A madman with a box had his arm around her shoulders. A deformed monster sang her to sleep with the promise of love in the morning. A drunken pirate gave her a wink and a kiss. An elf prince told her wild tales of his kin. A wizard boy told her stupid jokes and created animals out of the air.

All of them knew her by heart and all of them knew her heart. They read with her and danced with her and ran with her. Down the streets of London, inside a magic box, across the Caribbean, beneath the Paris Opera House, through a magical castle, towards Mordor, and across the Nine Realms they travelled and none of them were real.