ArtsyDragonrider
It's lonely in a creepy old library, the girl thinks as she rocks back and forth on a creaky chair, the wood grainy, warm and decaying. A tiny black cat is streched out on the well-worn couch across from her. Light from the setting sun illuminates the dust floating freely around the air that has collected on her skin, as though she is something from the past, a ghost of what was. The only undusted part of her is her hands, slaving away on a story. How she loves stories, where words can take her away from the isolation that is her life, almost like a defense of sorts. How she wishes someone would come and see the worlds she explores and makes and love them as dearly as she does.