Home is a Box.

     Some people say that home is where the heart is.

     Talia’s home was a sturdy wooden box that sat in front of the hearth. It was warm and safe and always in the right place. After a long day of selling her goods at the market she would return to her little cottage in the woods, its blue windows shining happily in the starlight to welcome her in from the frosty air.

      Then she would slump in front of the fire and take out her heart to inspect for an hour or so, this was a bad habit she admitted, but somebody had to check for new scars, and there was nobody else she trusted enough with the task. That was rather the point. But every night she would find no new wounds, only the faded mark from years gone by where her heart had been shredded.

      Metaphorically of course, but still, all wounds left their mark.

      A few handsome young men had tried to steal her heart in the past, with kind looks and good prospects, but soon found they couldn’t do so if she had no heart to steal. This was all, of course, part of Talia’s grand plan;

1. Fall in love.

2. Get brutally propelled out of love by some act of betrayal.

3. Take the previous experience as a lesson learned and vow to never repeat it.

4. Hide heart away in a safe container, separate from the world and its body.

5. Let it grow old and forget what love was.

6. Live unhappily ever after. 

Home is built around the heart, and in the home the heart shall stay.