Got the dreamer's disease
Fingers curl tighter against Isla’s pant leg, fisting certainty into her palm in the only way she can manage. Although there’s familiarity here, the world has cracked open with an abundance of new, and even the known has shifted into something else, given a different shape and understanding. Fern shuffles in with her mother’s stride like she means to become part of the very fabric that holds all her safety. Teetering on the cusp of bravery and caution, she leans warily around the barrier of limb, curiosity beckoning.
The cut of sunlight through the window, casting a sharp contrast on the floor, is where her eye goes first. What had been mystifying before, she now recognizes as the angle of light from outside, not two different planes of something, but one in different degrees of brightness. Slowly, her grip loosens, an audible breath taken as she steadies herself. A glance is cast up at Isla, a confirmation that passes silently, before she takes her first hesitant step away. Walking has been it’s own new wonder, one she rather thinks she’s mastered by the time they’ve made it here, although her toes flex in excess now as she crosses the floor towards the window-light.
Things are known, but not fully understood. Felt, but not experienced. So she reaches, once she deems it safe to do so, to grab hold of all that has shifted, realigning herself beside it. ”I liked this spot,” she says as she stoops down on the edge of the sun and the shadow, palms flattening on the floor before she turns to look back over her shoulder at her mother. ”I could watch it move and know when things would happen.” Like when one of them was more likely to come or go, or if she could expect the way they’d settle for the evening. Habits, however disrupted, built where they could be, dictated by the arc of this light.
The cut of sunlight through the window, casting a sharp contrast on the floor, is where her eye goes first. What had been mystifying before, she now recognizes as the angle of light from outside, not two different planes of something, but one in different degrees of brightness. Slowly, her grip loosens, an audible breath taken as she steadies herself. A glance is cast up at Isla, a confirmation that passes silently, before she takes her first hesitant step away. Walking has been it’s own new wonder, one she rather thinks she’s mastered by the time they’ve made it here, although her toes flex in excess now as she crosses the floor towards the window-light.
Things are known, but not fully understood. Felt, but not experienced. So she reaches, once she deems it safe to do so, to grab hold of all that has shifted, realigning herself beside it. ”I liked this spot,” she says as she stoops down on the edge of the sun and the shadow, palms flattening on the floor before she turns to look back over her shoulder at her mother. ”I could watch it move and know when things would happen.” Like when one of them was more likely to come or go, or if she could expect the way they’d settle for the evening. Habits, however disrupted, built where they could be, dictated by the arc of this light.
Fern
This world is gonna pull through, don't give up
