She remembered her mother’s laugh as they ran through their mansion’s gardens, playing; she remembered her father’s lips twitch as he saw the two of them together, smiling at the women he loved most in the world. Cinderella could recall a hundred memories of laughter, happiness and joy. There were also some dark memories that would never leave her. She would never forget the day her mother died. Her father had looked devastated barely holding himself upright, his eyes red from tears. Cinderella had been seven years old. More than two hundred persons came to the funeral, most of them sporting a dark semblance, having come to say goodbye to one of the gentlest and more charitable persons of their small community. Cinderella’s family was one of the richest of the region, her father a very wealthy merchant. Many people had knocked at their door begging for help, food, or simply a blanket. Cinderella’s mother had never refused anyone and provided them with whatever she could. The people would smile at her, singing her praises and never forget her charity.
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