A lonely girl, dissatisfied with her life and dreaming of adventure, liked to sit in a window seat with faded roses patterning the fabric and read stories about a similar girl's adventures along a yellow brick road. Sometimes, as she was daydreaming about her lions and tigers and bears, she'd rest her head back and gaze out the window over the bay, always looking to the lights on the horizon and thinking, "Someday, I'll go there and see what there is to see."
And sometimes, late at night when the other girls were asleep, she'd tiptoe across the floor — avoiding all the creaky floorboards, of course, because of course she knew them all by heart — and sneak back to that window, drawing back the curtains long enough for her to catch a glimpse of the Yellow Brick Road, lit up and golden and just waiting for a pair of red shoes to set foot onto it someday.
She's a long way from that window seat now, with plenty of horizons between her and those faded roses. But it turns out there still really is no place like home.
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And sometimes, late at night when the other girls were asleep, she'd tiptoe across the floor — avoiding all the creaky floorboards, of course, because of course she knew them all by heart — and sneak back to that window, drawing back the curtains long enough for her to catch a glimpse of the Yellow Brick Road, lit up and golden and just waiting for a pair of red shoes to set foot onto it someday.
She's a long way from that window seat now, with plenty of horizons between her and those faded roses. But it turns out there still really is no place like home.
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