I wanted to write but all my brain wants to do is describe things so
Winnifred is sat on the dining room floor. The table has been pushed into the hall so she can spread out across the floor, various scraps of paper and pens and beads and bundles of string littering the space around her wings. Her dark hair is pulled up into a bun that has all but fallen out, and she’s focused on threading a needle, chewing on a pen cap as she does so. Her green skirt has been pushed out around her, and she’s halfway through stitching shut a hole in the front, a design drawn around it to disguise the patch. Pale light filters through the frosted window behind her, catching in the stained glass ornament hung from her curtain rod and splashing color across the room.
