Words have always been her home, a respite from not quite being herself yet, a palace built out of sweat and ink for her to live in as long as she pleases, until she is old enough to not need them anymore (& she hopes she never will); a world of adventures and hope and the possibility of everything.
Words have always seen her through; the best times and the worst and all the in-betweens. Coming from someone else, proof that others have known the same things as she does, a comforting hand stroking her hair –
or leaking from her own fingertips, spilled out onto paper from homesickness or happiness too big to contain.
Words have always made her long for elsewhere, made her think and skip and linger, made her see and dream and wonder.
Words have always been her home in a city built of stone.