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I had made a pact with the devil in exchange for eternal life, health and beauty. But which would the price be I had to pay for it? The sad and painful loneliness would be the price to pay...

"It was on a dreary night of November that I saw the result of my labours..."
I had been working on my own body for what looked like ages now and finally I was looking at my reflection in the mirror with a deep-satisfaction smile: I had recovered the use of my long-time-ago-dead legs. But what had been the price to pay? Could I ever think of the process without feeling shivers down my broken spine?