Once upon a time, a young maiden with shaded spectacles strode into the little French town of Haine carrying a collection of hand bound books. Though she had delicate features and white rose petal skin, she was not beautiful. Her long thick hair was a vibrant shimmering gold in the sunlight, but it was rough and knotted to the touch. Her cheeks were rosy and her lips red, yet the bitter aftertaste of insecurity on her tongue bewitched her words, turning them sour. Small children poked and dared each other teasingly to speak with her as she glided past them on the cobbled streets, not having the courage themselves but hoping feverishly that someone else would. 
The young lady had become something of a legend to Haine, with her image the subject of many cautionary tales used to frighten young boys and girls. To some she was the ghost of La Voison, who came each year in search of bad children for her wicked potion recipes. To others she sold her soul to the devil for the gift of immortality, and was destined to roam the earth forever in search of others willing to sell. But to everyone in the town, she was simply known as L'écrivaine. 
When L'écrivaine entered the town square, she did not pause to look at the brilliant bustling actions of the market nor to smell the flowers blooming in the fresh air of the coming spring. Instead she walked briskly to her table and began to methodically set up her books for selling. Nobody ever stepped within a meter of the table for fear their souls would be eaten, and none of the books ever got purchased. Still the precision and care that L'écrivaine took with her setup, her fingers dancing along the covers of her books with motherly tenderness, made many linger a safe distance away admiring her work. 
But then something unexpected happened. 
A young black man with head held high and a grin pasted imprecisely on his face to cover the fear in his eyes sauntered over and leaned on the table, ushering an unnerving creak from its joints. 
"So...uh. C-come here often?" He laughed nervously, the comedy of the words feeling foreign in his mouth. L'écrivaine didn't even glance up, just continued to set up her station.
"No."
"Do you r-recommend anything?" 
Silence. 
"They," he nodded his head towards the steadily growing crowd " they treat us the same … I j-just wanted you to know I understand what it’s li-"
L'écrivaine's nonchalant attitude dissipated immediately as she stood abruptly, causing the table to wail at the unforeseen movement. An excited murmur could be heard as the crowd prepared to see the soul cursed for angering the witch. Her mouth pursed as she ripped off her shades, staring directly into the man's ebony eyes. He felt himself drawn in, staring endlessly into a void of hatred, the flames in her soul licking the secrets of his mind. There was no grin that could hide the horror on his face, for what he saw was a story of unimaginable heartbreak. Tears streamed freely from his eyes as his knees buckled under him, and he dropped to the floor frozen in a perpetual scream. 
The rest of the townspeople thought it best to step around him rather than over, trying their best not to touch him at all. 
So as the broken man lay crumpled on the floor, L'écrivaine returned her tinted eyeglasses to their rightful place and began to flip carelessly through one of her books. Yet those brave enough to stay within a stone-throw radius could tell that the atmosphere of the town square had shifted. The air had the taste of dust and the pollen of the flowers had suddenly turned sickeningly sweet. An expectant hush fell across the townspeople of Haine. L'écrivaine held her head down as her shoulders shook gently, her breathing growing sporadically into staccato beats, as if the girl were gently weeping. But as this whimper turned into a sob, thick black tears oozed down her rosy cheeks and dripped onto the pages of her book, burning large gaping holes into the words written there. She staggered to her feet clawing at her face, blinded by the viscous inky tears as the skin on her face began to sizzle. 
"Help!"  L'écrivaine's words sounded demonically distant "Somebody please!"
The townspeople took a collective step back as L'écrivaine stumbled forwards, straight into the outstretched arms of the man with head held high and eyes that no longer held fear, which sanctioned a horrified gasp from the crowd. He embraced her as she cried, holding her close so that they could feel each other's hearts beating synchronously for a long while.
"What was her name?" He asked solemnly.
"Bona." 
"She looked just like you."
"S-she did, didn't she?" L'écrivaine smiled weakly.
"She was beautiful."
And the man was not lying. For even though her once rosy cheeks were streaked with burned and blistered skin, the woman was beautiful. Even though her eyes were filled with the sadness and grief of a mother who has lost their child, they were sparkling with renewed hope in the sunlight. And her lips were no longer poisoned with the regret she once felt, and they moved freely and with purpose when she spoke her next words. 
"Thank you for understanding."