All these years, all these memories, there was I.

Margrethe has always been a lonely girl.
Or, at least, that is how others would describe her, but they don’t know a thing about her.  She has never told anyone that she remembers all her past lives in such a vivid detail that makes her own pale by comparison. They wouldn’t believe her. Nobody would understand.
And if there is something that Margrethe longs for, despite trying always to keep distances, is understanding.