Fantasyland

Previously

…The Whispering Willow had given her a seed. The Moving Boxes had, paradoxically, helped her understand that seeds don’t need to be packed. They need to be planted, nurtured, and allowed to grow, wherever life might take her. Fantasyland, she realized with a quiet certainty, wasn’t a place that could be left behind. It was a part of her, an internal landscape that would continue to bloom, a testament to the enduring power of a child’s imagination, a gift she would carry with her always. She stood, brushing the dust from her knees, a faint smile gracing her lips, the scent of dust and memory a comforting embrace. The echoes in the attic were not of loss, but of a quiet, enduring triumph.