I sometimes think about the person who carefully placed four dried leaves in this book. Maybe they went out into their garden and picked the leaves specially, carefully ironing out the fronds between two thin sheets of cotton, gingerly lifting them by the stems and hanging them out by the windowsill to dry. Perhaps it was a particularly hot summers day. When they ironed out the cotton enveloping the leaves, the steam from the water rose into the air and beads of sweat formed on the tops of their forehead. Was it random, where they inserted the leaves into the book? Or did it mark their favourite parts? The years passed, and those leaves lay there, forgotten, waiting to be rediscovered. If I could find the person who used to own this book, I would give it back to them. It looks like it was treasured and loved, but forgotten. No one likes to be forgotten, unless it is for a very good reason.
♥ Dress by Witchery ♥ Bracelet by Equip ♥