*blows off the dust*
The woman opens the door slowly to a dusty, cob web ridden attic. It's your typical old attic, full of trunks and boxes long forgotten, moth eaten furniture seventy years out of style, that sort of thing.
She walks across the attic, skirt swishing over the creaking, dusty floor boards, dust motes swirling in the yellowy gold sunlight coming from the two windows at either end of the room. Reaching a box a little less dusty than the rest, she opens it and pulls out a brown leather covered book, tied shut with a green satin ribbon. She takes the book, holding it under one arm, and leaves the attic.
Walking downstairs she passes rooms, most empty, one or two occupied by cheap furniture and clutters of papers and clothing. Heading into the kitchen, she thunks the worn out looking book on the table and sits down, sneezing once or twice from the dust that came down with her. Undoing the satin ribbon, she opens the tome and flips through the parchement like pages, reading old passages and remembering forgotten words. Some make her sad, some make her happy, some make her wonder how drunk she was when she wrote them.
Reaching the end where the pages are all blank, she picks up a pen and stares out the window into the sunset bleeding reddish orange light over the roses and plants in the garden. Setting pen to paper, she begins writing slowly, forgotten memories, forgotten pains spilling from the pen tip to paper.
A faint coloured light dances among the dusky flowers before flitting over to the window overlooking the woman in the kitchen. Pressing pixie hands and nose to the glass, the fairy looks in, dusty wings fluttering excitedly when he sees the woman, writing again. Excitedly he dashes out about the garden, calling to whomever will listen. More fair folk flit out to see the news, that the woman was back, she had come back. They press their faces to the glass, chittering to one another, excited and sad at the same time. She's back but she looks different, older. A few errant strands of grey shine white in her dark hair, dark circles under her sad grey eyes. She's back, but she carries too much pain, too much anger. Her pen scratches fitfully at the thick paper, her hand starting and stopping too much, too many emotions dancing across her face. The fair ones look at one another and know that though she is back, it will be a long time before anything is the same. They will stick it out, though, as long as she belives and they will help if they can.
Do not fear the coming of Death on his pale horse. He is wise and knows when someone's hourglass is empty and he never takes a soul before it's time.
She walks across the attic, skirt swishing over the creaking, dusty floor boards, dust motes swirling in the yellowy gold sunlight coming from the two windows at either end of the room. Reaching a box a little less dusty than the rest, she opens it and pulls out a brown leather covered book, tied shut with a green satin ribbon. She takes the book, holding it under one arm, and leaves the attic.
Walking downstairs she passes rooms, most empty, one or two occupied by cheap furniture and clutters of papers and clothing. Heading into the kitchen, she thunks the worn out looking book on the table and sits down, sneezing once or twice from the dust that came down with her. Undoing the satin ribbon, she opens the tome and flips through the parchement like pages, reading old passages and remembering forgotten words. Some make her sad, some make her happy, some make her wonder how drunk she was when she wrote them.
Reaching the end where the pages are all blank, she picks up a pen and stares out the window into the sunset bleeding reddish orange light over the roses and plants in the garden. Setting pen to paper, she begins writing slowly, forgotten memories, forgotten pains spilling from the pen tip to paper.
A faint coloured light dances among the dusky flowers before flitting over to the window overlooking the woman in the kitchen. Pressing pixie hands and nose to the glass, the fairy looks in, dusty wings fluttering excitedly when he sees the woman, writing again. Excitedly he dashes out about the garden, calling to whomever will listen. More fair folk flit out to see the news, that the woman was back, she had come back. They press their faces to the glass, chittering to one another, excited and sad at the same time. She's back but she looks different, older. A few errant strands of grey shine white in her dark hair, dark circles under her sad grey eyes. She's back, but she carries too much pain, too much anger. Her pen scratches fitfully at the thick paper, her hand starting and stopping too much, too many emotions dancing across her face. The fair ones look at one another and know that though she is back, it will be a long time before anything is the same. They will stick it out, though, as long as she belives and they will help if they can.
Do not fear the coming of Death on his pale horse. He is wise and knows when someone's hourglass is empty and he never takes a soul before it's time.