It was the thing she said she could never live without; the thing she always had with her, wrapped in a worn, rotten blanket she described as ‘beautiful’. Whenever she looked for comfort, she would reveal the gift that lay underneath the wrapping paper, the treasure hidden inside the chest, the joy found from a surprise: her one and only possession she could say was special.

The damaged cover, at the brink of falling apart, but staying together just to keep the smile on her face. The yellowed pages crinkling at the edges, but staying together just to keep the light shining in her eyes every time she reread her favourite stories. Her face is always the same- ecstatic and smiling lovingly, glossy eyes creasing with happiness. Nothing did she hold so close to her heart.

She used to tell me of all the wonderful stories she had read from her only safe haven. How they never failed to make her laugh with excitement, joy, content. How her father would sometimes sit with her before she fell asleep, reading all his favourites from when he was a little boy, his voice so full of expression it felt like she was really there, in a pirate ship on the dark sea, or a castle, watching the events play out from afar.

Now, years later, she still read to herself, remembering her father as he watched from above, listening to her gentle voice whisper:

‘And they all lived happily ever after,’

before she wrapped the book back up in his frayed purple blanket, and cried silently to herself in isolation.