Its just one of those stories, the kind that mothers tell their children, and husbands tell their wives. It’s the kind of story that one lover tells another, or that older brothers or sisters tell their youngers and lessers.

Why does anyone tell anyone-else a story like this? Like the story about the Gobller In The Walls that hides under your bed. Or the six forks and seven knives that decided to trade places. Or theres the one about that old painting they found under city hall. People here tell each other stories and it doesn't really matter if its not true or that it is, or that it might be. So the same goes for the story about the fairy that delivers to you them days.

First of all they say she was born normal, though she certainly is not mundane, not any more that is. She’s a supernatural constant, an unreconcilable force, a manifestation that endeavors throughout time. She, and others like her, they exist as a part of a spectrum behind the scenes, both beautiful and convoluted. Things like her bring order, bring chaos, bring luck and misfortune.

The story always starts out the same. Were it be told at school, at the pub, at the market, or on the train.

“You know how when you wake up fresh at the beginning of the week?” Some stranger will ask.

“Like you got your whole life ahead of you.” Says a relative, a close friend, an acquaintance’s favorite acquaintance you’ve just met.

“It was...it was just like...like everything fit, you know?” Thats how people start to talk about her, and the one who's getting told is sucked into the most disputed tale the city has to offer. It’s practically a pastime.

“Well thats her”, she tells you, whispering in your ear with sweet scented lips as she doodles on a napkin.

“She’s been there!” He raises his fists towards the skyline and cheers.

“Thats your days, they’ve been delivered...your welcome!” He pours another cup of coffee, black like oil and a stench like it was brewed in the toliet...the eighth cup.