painting by Catrin Welz-Stein
She holds the book like it’s a living thing~ a small, breathing lantern of thought opening in her hands. Letters rise from the page, blue-bright and weightless, as though the story has decided it can no longer be contained. They drift upward, carrying pieces of her~ curiosity, memory, the quiet ache of what she’s lived and what she longs to understand. In their ascent she feels something shift: the way destiny sometimes arrives not as a path but as a sentence finally breaking free. And for a moment she is both reader and written, the book and the becoming~ watching her own story lift into the air to show her what it means.
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