(Fairy tale retelling)

Far away, in the land to which the swallows fly when it is winter, lived a special woman. Her hair, a cascade of shimmering silver, flowed down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Her eyes, a piercing shade of ice blue, held a depth and intensity that seemed to freeze the very air around her.

She had a peculiar hobby: collecting porcelain swans. Not just any figurine, mind you, but ones that were strangely expressive, each with a unique personality etched into their delicate forms.

Unique beauty costs a lot.

The swan collection was a necessity. The woman had a terrible memory. She could forget names, faces, even entire conversations within a matter of hours. To combat her forgetfulness, she had started creating porcelain swans for every person she met. Each swan was a reflection of that person’s essence, their joys, their sorrows, their quirks. Her collection was a living diary, a reminder of the people who had touched her life.

She had lived alone for a long time, but her family was especially important to her. So, she made the most glorious figures to represent her brothers. Although most people avoided her, these 11 were her closest companions.

One day, as the woman returned home, she was greeted by a sight that sent a chill down her spine. Her beloved swans from the collection lay in shattered pieces on the floor. Those ones that represented her brothers were irreplaceable. She was devastated. The swans were her memories, her lost family.

She spent hours sifting through the wreckage, trying to salvage what she could. With a heavy heart, she gathered the broken pieces of her swans and placed them in a large cardboard box. Then she took the box to the local pottery and asked the owner if she could help her repair the swans.

The potter, a kind and gentle old woman, reluctantly agreed to help. The process was painstaking. Over the next few weeks, they worked together to restore the swans to their former glory. As they started to paint them, the women felt a sense of peace and closure, but her memories remained increasingly fragmented.

When the swans were finally repaired, she held each one in her hands and examined them carefully, but the situation with her memories remained unchanged.

Still blurry, unclear, distant.

It was as if she wasn’t living her own life, as if she were a bystander.

Her collection was a testament to her resilience, her ability to find beauty and meaning in the fragments of her past. The broken swans, painstakingly restored, were the start of her own journey of healing and renewal.

Even if she forgot everything, even if everyone continued to shun her, she needed to reach out, to connect with others, to create new memories that wouldn’t fade so easily.

And yet, as she looked out at the snow-covered city, she felt a pang of loneliness. Her swans could no longer replace the warmth of human connection. And they never really had.

However, one day they flew in… From now on, the real swans in this story are no longer of porcelain.