Leah writes at sunset, smiling softly toward the child she once was.

 Leah writes at sunset, smiling softly toward the child she once was.

She loves stories — maybe because her father used to read her magical Russian tales.

Or maybe because she grew up watching brief human interactions like scattered puzzle pieces, waiting for a curious watcher like her to gently fit them together.
With a smile.
A tear.
A sigh.
She writes to give those fleeting moments a home.