What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.

Why Dancer? That was the name the Wharf Rats gave me. I was able to dance on the sky, they said. I thought the name pretty, in fact. A characteristic of mine – so why not? Simple enough, and maybe it had more to do with me than Anne, Annie and such names as those. They were my old names, belonging to a life prior to all this – to this city, to this world. Marguerite called me Annie; I was her younger sister, her little one. It felt appropriate at the time. But some names fall over time, lose whatever meaning they once bore. Marguerite never stopped calling me Annie, but Dancer is gone now. What use would it be? If it carries old memories you can no longer live, those memories are fated to hurt you. They bring you suffering – and so does the name itself. It feels better to pretend such memories were never there, were never real. Pain and suffering kill you, and so you must kill the name instead in order to survive. You need a fresh start.

The memory of the Sandstorm, of Sand and Storm, will live forever. The sparrows never die; the birds live on on the wind. Yet my cage is down here, where no wind can ever sing. In here, you die. In here, Dancer is dead.