Inside the stack lived a little lady made of words. Letters ran across her skin, her eyelashes beat with exclamations and her hair uncurled languorous descriptions of the stories her heart whispered in the night. The walls of her home were faded papers, histories and folktales that lingered on the page like shadows. Whether from sad thoughts or moments of delight, the tears she shed were made of blackest ink. They splashed around her and broke into an alphabet, the tiny characters ran around and banded together, weaving themselves into new yarns of extraordinary adventure.
. . .