the Parable of the Perfect Parcel
She is curled up on an old faded rug by the fire, sipping a cup of steaming tea. There are no walls to this place, so the chill early morning breeze saunters through, stirring the dark curls framing her pale face, rustling the pages of the book. Once, twice, the wind snatches the feather quill from her hand, which takes to the wind as if remembering the thrill of flight– but each time she need only reach out her hand, and the quill flits obediently back.
She smiles softly as you enter and says not a word… but turns the book to you, so you can see what she has written…
