My name is Cinderella.
I always remember the day my mother died.
In the dark alley, she fell to the ground naked, the blood on her body had long dried up, her eyes were wide open, and she looked in pain. Her feet were chopped off, leaving only smooth sections.
No one could imagine that the night before yesterday she was holding my hand tenderly by the fire and teaching me how to dance.
From that day on, his father started running around, trying to find out the cause of his mother's death, but when he came back from a certain trip, he brought back his stepmother Elena. The father said that he was ambushed and seriously injured while walking through the dark forest, and it was Elena who saved him. In return, Elena asked her father to marry her.
My father had been bedridden since he returned that time. He passed away a few days after handing me a cypress branch he brought back from the road.
I was 15 years old.
I carefully planted the cypress tree in the backyard garden, next to my father's tombstone.
The branch miraculously survived and gradually grew.
I deliberately broke Elena's favorite glass makeup box, ironed my stepsisters' new skirts, and yelled on the street in front of the door.
They all said I was crazy.
My stepmother, who had long disliked me, immediately drove me to the kitchen and never showed up again.
The ashes stained the originally fair face, and the gray headscarf covered the long curly golden hair. People gradually forgot about the original Miss Cinderella of the Duke's family, and I could continue to secretly investigate the real cause of death of my parents.
It's all in plan.
Of course, plans occasionally have minor surprises.
Intention: If the protagonist in the fairy tale is no longer brilliant