Nantucket Island was truly a picturesque scene. Pulled straight out of a storybook, the cobbled streets, cloudless days and white-grained beaches were like a fantasy. I came here to live, learn and be. People liked moving to big cities like New York, London or Shanghai, but I was different. I simply didn't enjoy the smog, the hustle and bustle, the constant living with the weight of thousands on my shoulders.

I pulled out my journal and started to take notes of the streets, the sounds and the people. This was vital for my soon-to-be-published book. I wanted to create something with energy, something with force, but not of action or anger. I started noting the ringing of bicycle bells and the smells of pastry cooking behind windows, the combined energy of little things.

I explored the village on my third day, and the beach on the fourth. Each place held kindness and happiness, with fun and enjoyment practically becoming palpable. This day I was visiting the stores in the far reaches of the town. After all, the smallest details were even useful for this story.

By early afternoon, I had strolled around most of the town, journal in one hand, and freshly made ice cream in the other. While admiring the ornate design of the surrounding buildings, I spotted a store I hadn't yet seen. It was closely tucked between other shops, and it was relatively nondescript. However, the trinkets in the store window piqued my interest.

I opened the door, jangling the bell, and a small figure huddled from the shadows. He was an old man, with lines across his weathered face. His spectacles were oddly shaped and his clothes didn't match, but he had a funny way of walking and I already liked him.

"Hullo, Hullo. How are you doing today, madam?" He asked, adjusting his glasses and giving a beaming smile.

"Great, mister. Your trinkets are very beautiful."

"Thank you miss, they are from all over Europe."

"I like these a lot. Would you mind if I wrote some notes on them?"

"Of course, but what reason?"

"Oh, nothing, just for a story."

"Oh, story! I have some very nice thing for you." He shuffled to the back room to retrieve something.

I smiled and examined the wooden tops and dolls, the ornate dresses and clothes. He came back out with a nutcracker-style toy for me. "Here," he said, handing it to me, "you will like." The toy was cute, well-made, but with a few scratches here and there. I handed it back to him, and as I passed it, I saw a mark upon his forehead. It was confusing at first, but once I realized it, I was sure. There was a faded swastika carved into his forehead. Unsure of how to bring it up, I mumbled, but he soon understood and sighed. He pointed to it and questioned,"This?" I swallowed and nodded.

"Is that?" I finally asked.

"Hm. It is."

"N-Nazi?"

"No. German, yes."

"C-can you tell me? What did you do?"

His face was solemn, but he spoke, "I lived in Germany. That time, much was changing. We had leader. His name, Adolf."

"I know him."

"Evil, you think, yes? He was not. Not to my, brother, not to my sister, not to my father or my mother. He saved economy. He saved what we had left."

"Of course, but he killed so many." We both sat down, and he continued to speak.

"Indeed. So did yours. I only wish we could stop it all. When my brother was old enough, he left. With my father, he went, to war. Never came back."

"That's-that's horrible."

"Thank you. Not many people listen to my side of story."

"Please, if you can, continue."

"When the time for war came over, we, the people, got hurt. Adolf killed himself and was free of attackers, but we were not. The soldiers and citizens came and took us. They cut these marks in our heads, branded us and showed it to the world. We were only children. My sister, I never even saw her again. That is why I give you the doll. It was hers. I remember she liked stories very much."

I was speechless. I realized that I hadn't written anything this entire time. The story, the person, the idea and the energy were all there, yet this was something I had no idea could even happen. There were tears in my eyes, but as I brushed them away, he started to smile again.

I hugged him and said,"That is beautiful, and sad. Please, let me come here again. I want to write this. I want to let the world know."

He was still, and for a second I thought he was nonchalant. Instead I saw that he was just overflowing with emotion and could not express it. I understood, and looked him in the eyes. He understood as well.

It was getting late, so I soon said my goodbyes and promised to come the next day, but my purpose, my story, on this fairytale island had just begun.