She looked up at the ceiling, lost in her thoughts as the storm outside grew in intensity. The canvas hammock underneath her did nothing to dispell the fears she still had, nor the nightmares that plagued her. Her left arm was folded under her head, and she had covered herself with a silk quilt made for her by a friend of her mother's.
Looking to her left, she took in the sight of the canopied four poster. With its cream colored sheets and pillows with black accents, it looked extremely Parisian and inviting, but she couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to sleep in that bed. She hadn't slept there for quite a while. Against the flash of lightning, it looked formal, something out of an eighteenth century novel.
Bookshelves filled the room, and she smiled. Books were her first love, her first friends. It was they that opened her mind to different countries and places, different dimensions. And it was them that kept her sane in her time of insanity.
Picking up the book that was on the broad window sill right next to the hammock, she brushed a finger over the leather covering. It had been a present from the one she loved most, knowing how she wrote down story notes in various notebooks she'd recycled from her old exercise books. She was given the best present ever - a moleskine notebook encased with a waterproof layer, with her initials stamped onto the spine.
It became too much for her, and with a final look, she cried.