My Paper Kingdom

⟡⟡⟡

People talk a lot.
They throw words like rice at a wedding—reckless, messy, everywhere.
They don’t realize their words can be knives.
Or bandages.
Or sometimes both.

But then there’s the quiet.
Just pen on paper.
And for that second—I breathe.
I remember who I am.

Devin.

The 12 year old orphan.
The one with the salt-and-pepper hair that freaks out the toddlers.
With odd eyes and a quieter mouth.
I don’t talk to people. I talk to pages.

Pages don’t flinch.
Pages don’t lie.

⟡⟡⟡

“Devin.”

The voice cracks my bubble. I snap my black leather notebook shut like I’m sealing a secret.
It’s Elena, the woman who runs the foster home.

She’s kind in the way tired people are—gentle but frayed at the edges.
Dark skin, coiled hair in a loose bun, and a sigh permanently stitched into her voice.
She always glances at my notebook like she wants to read it. She never does. But I can tell she wants to.

“There’s someone here,” she says softly.

I narrow my eyes. I used to widen them when someone came to visit.
But that was when I still believed I could be chosen.

I slide off the window perch—my throne.
The only good part of the room.

A desk. A cupboard. A bunk bed where the top is always empty.
(No one wants to room with the “weird one.”)

But the perch?
It’s the sunniest spot in the building.

Elena gently stops me. “Devin, I—”

“I know,” I say, already walking. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Her lips tighten. She nods.
Twelve years in a place like this teaches you not to expect a yes.

The woman waiting downstairs can’t be more than thirty-five.
Red hair like fire in the sunlight.
Black dress. Black glasses.
Pale green eyes that look like they’ve held sadness gently in their palms.

She’s already lined the kids up. We’re inventory again.

“Children shopping,” I mutter.

She turns toward me—slowly, like she’s sensing something—and her eyes land on mine.

I brace myself for it. The polite smile. The flinch. The silent “No, thank you.”

But instead—
“Oh my,” she gasps.

Here we go, I think. Cue the part where she calls me odd.

“You’re beautiful,” she says.

I blink. Hard.
“What?”

“What’s your name, darlin’?” she asks, with a soft Southern lilt.

“Come again?”

“I said,” she smiles gently, “you’re beautiful.”

I gape at her. Then scoff. “You’re joking.”

She takes a step closer and spots my notebook.

Don’t do it, I think.

She reaches for it.

I pull it back. “It’s nothing.”

“I know a writer when I see one,” she says. “What do you write?”

“…Poems,” I whisper.

“Oh,” she sighs. “I love poems.”

My heart forgets how to beat.
“You do?”

“I’m a librarian,” she says proudly. “Books are my friends and my furniture.”

On her wrist is a bracelet—two names etched faintly.
In her purse, a photo peeks out: her and another woman, smiling, hand in hand.
It looks like something soft that’s been broken.

I don’t ask. But I understand.
She’s not just here for us. She’s here for a former lover. Someone who pased and left a hole. 

“I have a library,” she says. “It’s old and dusty and full of ghosts and lonely shelves. I was hoping someone might like to visit.”

That ache again, behind her smile.

Then, just like that, it’s gone.
Replaced with sparkles and sunshine and lavender air.

“Would you like to see it?”

She’s looking at me.

I blink. “Me?”

She turns to Elena. “Is that possible?”

Elena practically jumps. “There’s a 48-hour trial form—temporary guardianship. It’s approved!”

They both look at me.

The librarian asks again, “Would you like to come?”

I look down at my shoes. Then at my hands. Then at her.

“…Could I see your library?” I whisper.

“Yes,” she says, glowing.

“Then—yes.”

⟡⟡⟡

Hope.

Hope is a balloon.
It lifts you slowly, like maybe you could touch the sky.
But it’s also fragile.
A pop—and you fall.
And sometimes, you don’t land softly.

Sometimes, you break.

But sometimes?

Sometimes the balloon holds.

And you fly.

⟡⟡⟡

We leave.

Her car is sleek and black with silver wheels and Bluetooth.
It smells like lavender and maybe a little bit of cinnamon.

The orphanage fades behind me—brick by yellow brick—until it’s just a memory in the rearview.

And for a second, I wonder…

What if my small world—
my pen, my notebook, my perch—
wasn’t the end of it?

We pull into the driveway.

I stare.
It’s not a house—it’s a cathedral of stories.

Stained glass windows shimmer with light.
Carvings of dragons and angels dance across the stone.
There are vines and wooden beams and a bell that hasn’t rung in years.

I gasp. She laughs.

“Come with me,” she says, holding out her hand.

I hesitate.

Then I take it. Warm. Real. Solid.

She leads me through massive oak doors—

And I see it.

The Library.

It’s alive.

Books in every corner.
Three spiraling floors.
A chandelier is like something out of a dream.
Colored light spills from the glass and dances across dark wood and golden railings.

I forget to breathe.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

She watches me, eyes full of stars. “I thought you might think so.”

Then she offers her hand again, like royalty.

“My name is Matilda. I’m 32. I’m a librarian. I want to read every poem ever written. I love chocolate, lavender, and I bake when I’m sad. I’m terrible with spicy food. And I love weird people who carry black notebooks like shields.”

I grin.
“I’m Devin. I’m 12. I like poetry, writing, stars, and making messes. I love art you make with your whole body. I like hot chocolate and cold showers. I like… being quiet.”

She smiles like she’s just found a treasure.
“I love all of that.”

She claps her hands. “Well then, Devin. You know what else I love?”

“What?”

She leans in. “Hope.”
Then she laughs. “Also… race you.”

“What?”

“To the second floor. Around the loop. Back down. First to the poetry section wins.”

I blink. “I don’t race.”

She shrugs. “I don’t lose.”

And then—she’s off.
Laughing, sprinting past shelves like a teenager.

Something strange happens.

I chase her.

We run like we’re trying to break gravity.
Up the winding stairs, past cookbooks and dragons and encyclopedias.
My lungs burn sweet. My heart thuds like it’s trying to escape.

“Look sharp!” she calls, tossing something.

I catch it without thinking. A small, slightly melted chocolate bar.

“You hide candy in bookshelves?” I gasp.

“I hide magic!” she yells back.

⟡⟡⟡

Race You.
Feet slap wood.
Laughter falls like stars.
We run like wolves who forgot how to walk.
We fly, just for a second,
past everything that ever tried to hold us still.

⟡⟡⟡

We land in the poetry section, gasping.
I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe.

We collapse on the floor, grinning and red-faced.

“You cheated,” I say between breaths.

“I encouraged,” she says, wiping her brow.

I unwrap the chocolate and take a bite.
It tastes like courage.

There’s silence. The good kind.
The kind that stays with you.

“I like it here,” I say, quietly.

Matilda leans back and smiles at me.

“I hoped you would.”