𖦹 、𝗛e smelled of books and 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴. Of all the worlds he'd lived within. 𝕬s though the ink had left the pages. 𝙏★ find a new home in his skin. He didn't quite belong here. Lived a life within his head.

𝓛ike he'd slipped out from the covers. Of a paperback instead. 𝗔𝕟𝕕 you'd see it in his eyes. That they were deeper than a well, he was a whole library of stories that we'd beg of her to tell. When he spoke the world would listen to the adventures of his mind. For if there's such a thing as magic. Then it was something he could find and her heart had looked much further than her eyes had ever seen.

𝕳e'd walked on words to place. His two feet had never been, It's years now since he moved. And we all 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙙 to keep in touch. So his memory's all faded like a book you've read too much. But if he hoped to leave us ink-stained, she should know she did succeed. For even now we all still look for her. 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 book we read.