My house was filled with books.
Some on the shelf and some under the bed.
Some were fat and old with crinkly pages,
Some were thinner and glossy.
Some had words big and some were laden with pictures.

She was far too young to read
So she heard.
Her mother recited each tale,
Tales of kings and queens, giants and demons, warriors and knights,
Each mystified her, enthralled her.

And I knew them all too well.
I had heard them before
In some other timeline.
Some answers I found in them
Of riddles asked in the era gone by.

She lay there dreaming about a faraway land
While I lay there making each character, each story
A part of me.
And I wondered,
Will someone read my story?
If yes, which version?
This or the old?