The sun never sets in Bool. Nor does it rise.
The sky is painted in perpetual twilight, all blushing and bruised, and here the air always smells of petrichor.
Children never seem to find the way in; their unprepared hearts divert them, and draw them into the darkness – into lands full of frightening things – until their fears return them to their proper beds, if they survive out there at all.
Only grown-ups will see the path that leads to this place, and even then, only they can pass through the gate unhindered.
I know this, because I am one of them.
I have been absent from this land for months, but the thought does not distress me. I had been working hard in mundane space since my last visit: caring for my mother through her illness, picking up the household groceries by myself every week, and always finishing my homework, even when I would rather be doing anything else. There, it isn’t much fun, to be honest; these days it feels like my friends all have so much more