A piercing, cold wind hailed and moaned a sorrowful cry of a weeping widow through the winter, Swedish air as the sun set beneath the horizon, surrendering an array of sparkles across the freshly, fallen snow. Evergreen trees swayed and drifted back and forth from the harsh blows of the chilling winds, and their leaves whispered through the atmosphere. Old, dirty apartments remained tolerant of the burden of the unforgiving breeze,yet, small pieces of debris were cleaved away from the weak points of the poorly constructed buildings. Dynamic shadows danced across the landscape as people hugged themselves with their winter, thick coats and fleece scarves. Smoke from brick chimneys blew through the air, sending hope and warmth through the air. It's another bitter dawn to a freezing night, and another reminder of a depraved and cruel, snowy season in Stockholm, Sweden.

By a lonely, third story, half-open window, a 17 year old girl sits on a maroon love seat sketching on torn paper. Her hand was trembling and twitching constantly as she slowly drew each line and curve, and countless times, she made mistakes. However, she never sighed or groaned when she the old, tampered pencil would slip from her slender fingers or when she missed a line by a tenth of an inch; instead, she'd moor the slipup and proceed with the sketch.

Her deep, gold eyes were poorly hidden behind thin, light eyelashes and they held haunted memories, and fragments of the past that are constantly replayed through her wandering thoughts. The young girl's skin is porcelain as if the sun never beckoned her presence, and her body is thin and easily breakable as if it were made of exspensive glass. Curly auburn hair spirals down her back glittering in the dimming light of an ending day, and her thin lips frown frozenly. Despite her youth, she looks miserable and out of place, her heart shaped face spells it all as she cries in the inside in pure, mental pain.

A quiet shut of the front apartment door made the girl stop sketching and stare towards her cracked doorway. Heavy, uneven footsteps echoed closer to her room, and the door opened with a creek. A tall, broad man -a few years older than her- stepped into her bedroom with a square object wrapped in sky blue cloth held in his left hand.

"Moa," he said in a soft voice, walking towards her, "I got this for you today." He handed her the wrapped item, and she took it without a word or a simple nod of thanks.

For several moments, she examined the covered, heavy mystery in speculation.

After becoming too impatient and exicted, the man said, "Open it."

Moa glanced at him and back to the covered item cradling in her twinging hands. With twitching fingers, she uncovered a journal and eyed it closely, but she still said nothing in return. The diary was thick, and its pages were empty of writing or records. On the wooden cover, 'Moa' was engraved in golden, bold letters, and she traced them several times without a sound.

"I hope you'll write your heart away," the man said, as Moa admired the diary's perfection, but when she tried to flip the book open to another page, it slipped out of her hands and thrust onto the floor. The impact of the dropped journal echoed through the room, and Moa turned her head away from the fallen diary with a sigh of frustration.

The man bent down and retrieved the blank booklet, but when he was about to hand the journal back to her, he stopped and eyed her unfinished sketch.

From his point of view, the drawing looked like a shattered flower vase with dark roses lying on ancient, stone floor. By the shading of the picture, he assumed the sun was shining upon the scattered glass and spilled water.

Sensing his eyes on her unfinished sketch, Moa abruptly clutched her drawing to her chest and stared back at him, defense storming through her eyes.

"You won't show me?" he asked.

Moa didn't reply.

"Alright, but I know you're a talented artist, and I wanna see the finished product, okay?" the man asked.

Moa shook her head slightly in rejection.

"Awww," he said, disappointedly setting the diary over her guarding arms, "As I was saying before, I want you to write as much as you want in this journal. I got this for you because I want you to warm up to me again, and talk to me like you used to. I'm deeply hoping, Moa," -he set his left hand lightly on her booklet- "this diary will help you become the outspoken, little sister I know very well."

Frowning, her eyes fell to the floor.

"Your disease has taken a toll on all of us, and it's not your fault. It never was. Mom and dad were out of their minds to abandon you when you needed them most. I understand you had to say good-bye to all your school friends, but I hope you know that I'll love you the same as always because you’re my baby sister. It's not my duty to care for you, but I'm proud to be the one there when you need me, Moa. I really hope you see that," her brother said, setting a warm, kind hand on her cold, weak shoulder.

Moa said nothing, but she peered at her new diary through the corner of her eyes without saying a word.

The front door opened and shut, and lighter footsteps came closer at an even pace. An average height man, a year or two older than Moa walked through the door wearing a heavy fleece coat and a thick scarf. He is somewhat tan, and his dirty blonde hair is short and messy. His crystal, blue left eye and deep, brown right eye are outlined by thick, coal-black eyelashes, and his face is freshly shaven.

"Moa, Axel," he greeted in his baritone voice.

Moa glanced at the new arrival, and Axel folded his arms kindly and said, "Good-Evening, Jesper. Can I talk to you in the hall?"

He gave a stiff nod, and the both of them stepped out of the room, but Moa could faintly hear their gentle whispers.

"Did you find anything?" Axel asked, serious.

"Jag ar ladsen. I'm sorry, but there's nothing," Jesper apologized, "Cerebellar Ataxia is still currently being researched."

"What about America? China? Japan? England?" he asked.

Jesper shook his head and said, "There's nothing."

"Nothing? Nothing? How can we just stand around working with nothing?" Axel complained, "My little sister is only 17. Her life should be sparkling and glowing, but she's slowly dying before she has the chance to shine. I sit here day by day, watching my sister have trouble walking and have a hard time with the easiest of tasks. She can barely hold something without dropping it. Soon she won't be able to write or stand, and lastly, the disease takes away her ability to talk. Then she'll be a frozen form in a hospital be But look at her now. She won't speak even though she can, and I haven't heard her voice, her beautiful voice, ring in my ears ever since she was diagnosed three months ago. My mother and father and the rest of my cowardly family left her because of the cost of medicine and doctor appointments. How selfish they are! Moa has given up hope, and even when the light fades away from the horizon, I refuse to allow the darkness take me away because I know the sun will always rise again. I'll go any length for my sister, and I just pray to God that there'll be a cure. Who deserves this disease, Jesper?"

"No one," he replied, "Ataxia is unfair, and I understand because I feel the same way. Though I’m not Moa's brother, I’ve been there for her since childhood, and you're right. It was cowardly for your family to leave her behind for such a petty reason. I'd do the same as you for Moa because I care for her close ' or just as much as you, Axel, but it sounds to me that you're letting that glint of light fade away. Whatever you do, don't allow that to happen for Moa. You and I need to be her best support especially when this disease reaches its worst. Cope with time and technology, and hold Moa strong for the time being."

Sighing, Axel said, "I guess you're right."

"I'll explain to her what I know for today," Jesper said.

"Be careful with what you say," Axel told him.

"Will do," he said, walking past the stressed brother and into Moa's bedroom.

She stared out the dark window to the blinking street lights, admiring the fast walking people below them. A swift breeze flurried through her half-open window and brushed her hair back behind her shoulders. She shivered and fluttered from the whip of cold air brushing across her skin.

Jesper walked to her window and sealed it shut, and closed the maroon curtains. The wind whined against the thin glass as he turned around facing a shattered Moa.

"You'll catch a cold," he explained, staring at her diary, "I see Axel bought you that journal. Will you write in it?"

Moa didn't say anything, but nodded once.

"Good. I think that's great for you," Jesper said.

Moa said nothing, and several moments of silence engulfed the room.

"I wish you'd speak to me again," Jesper said, "Even though there is no cure, I wish you'd talk to me like before. I think your brother wants the same, and I understand you've been though a lot. But, please, say my name, Moa. Just say my name, please." He fell to his knees and gazed at her.

Her head lowered and she stared at him with tears welling in her eyes.

"Please," he begged, "Just say my name. Tell me my name in that sweet voice of yours."

Moa's gaze fell to the floor, and her eyes closed. She began to silently sob, and Jesper's face fell in his hands. Tears streamed down his face as he held her hands tightly, "Just... say... my... name..."