From an outside perspective the room would’ve seemed small. Moisture hung in the air; mildew and ‘fresh linen’ febreeze. Scribbled notes, an unmade bed. The type without a top sheet. Where blankets are a collectionof second-hands and charity tie-blankets. A small brown teddy rested next to the lumpy pillow.

To Avalyn, it was her secret garden. A tree house in her mind. Collections of dried flowers perfectly situated on the windowsil and delicately taped to the wall. Sticky notes formed abstract shapes across her walls. Organized thematically, an inner war openly displayed on the walls of her life. Hope, grief, anger, and that mysterious whisper that wouldn’t quite fade. The sole trickle of warmth into her soul.

Maybe that was it. In spite of the chipped paint and filmy windows, the room was truly a haven. The space Avalyn could let go and release. A moment breathed in slow, tear drops on another blue post-it note. Elegant little pens collected near the blue, metallic lamp which stood so faithfully intent on lighting the worn ikea desk. One could assume the desk had been white, but now under splatters of acrylic paints and scribbles of graffiti it is hard to be sure.

With no one to tell and a world on her shoulders, this young girl made her space where she could. Two plant cuttings sat on the windowsil between the dried flowers; trying to find their roots, but chilled by the drafty windows. Desperate for life an ironic reflection of Avalyn’s heart. Longing. Hoping. Roots plunging deep, but never finding the nutrients she craved.