Fingers make the tickets.

She’s ten.

A ten, of all it could be.

Books, paints, dirt and water. She needs no fire, and finds herself amazed when she sees something burned.

She’s never wanted anything material, she’s content with just her imagination.

She’s budding now and scents will begin to change.

She’s reaching out, ready to grow, ready to climb.

“I think that maybe we should be able to choose what we smell. Wouldn’t you love to smell the story you’re reading?”

Yes.

She’s got the fire in her eyes. The butterflies in her belly. She’s ready for takeoff.

“I think we should fly somewhere together. I don’t care where, I just want to be up in the air with you.”

She prefers worlds to tell her stories, time and time again. She lusts for the details, to see it just right.

“I’m scared I’m going to forget the past… Can you tell me stories some more?”

Yes, she’s ten today.
Twenty tomorrow.

Said she doesn’t care, as long as she can go where she pleases.