Lila lives an odd existence, but she finds ways to like it. When her world is upended, shaken with such force that she can feel her bones slamming into her flesh, she huddles into the little house. When she clings to the windowsill and peers out, though, everything is suddenly beautiful. The tin trees are swaying, and the air that is normally so viscous and choking is swirling, and through it falls the most beautiful tinsel.
She almost loves when this happens, despite the ache it nearly always leaves in her head. There’s something magical about pressing her face against the glass and letting her eyes drift over the bits of silver as they tumble through the air, gleaming like sparks that won’t light.
When the world is calm she can wander, sitting pressed against the tree (though the metal cuts her back) or sifting through the sparkles collected on the ground. She can almost see outside sometimes, though the world there seems large and frightening. It’s all in huge curved shapes, blurred and distant. Mostly she finds the beauty where she is, making snow angels that stay until the next quake or trying to climb a tree without slicing her skin.
Her world is sparse, with long stretches that surround her. It’s lonely being the only person there, and it’s boring when nothing happens for too long. When it’s been a while and she feels she might go mad from the monotony, she finds herself wishing for the jarring pain of a shake, to feel her spine snapping to and fro, because she knows that then she can gaze out the window and watch the snow fall.