you drew memories in my mind I could never erase
painted colors in my heart I could never replace
The Plaza is always busy. Bustling, moving, alive- it reminds her of home, or what home might have been, had they not been frozen for three hundred years. Once Amalia had believed her whole world to exist under the shell of an invisible dome. Small, contained, sealed and locked, but hers. She knew the people and their ways, knew the trees and the animals, the shops, the sounds, the smells. Her world had been a snowglobe, but it was a snowglobe she knew intimately.
Now the snowglobe has cracked open to reveal a world familiar and strange, and every time she thinks she's found her footing the rug is pulled again.
She's found a place beneath the arms of a large statue, an alcove outside of the bustle where she can sit and watch. Her legs are pulled up under her, knees up near her chin: a position that may appear uncomfortable, but is truly rather cozy, especially as the padding of luxurious fur gives protection to her back. Upon her knees a notebook sits, and in her fingers rests a quill. Every now and then she jots a note into her book, but for the most part Amalia simply watches, dark eyes keen as she soaks in the strange and wonderful world she now inhabits.
Now the snowglobe has cracked open to reveal a world familiar and strange, and every time she thinks she's found her footing the rug is pulled again.
She's found a place beneath the arms of a large statue, an alcove outside of the bustle where she can sit and watch. Her legs are pulled up under her, knees up near her chin: a position that may appear uncomfortable, but is truly rather cozy, especially as the padding of luxurious fur gives protection to her back. Upon her knees a notebook sits, and in her fingers rests a quill. Every now and then she jots a note into her book, but for the most part Amalia simply watches, dark eyes keen as she soaks in the strange and wonderful world she now inhabits.
meet me where the falling stars live
Amalia
