The House of the Arch

Funny how what had seemed like more than a year's accumulation of stuff when Door moved into and out of the cabins isn't taking very long to pack tonight, even with Chimney fluttering about making questionably helpful suggestions in Pigeon.

Then again, it's not that she doesn't have a boatload of books and clothing and random recipes for pie. It's just that most of it isn't going into the couple of bags she can safely carry with her, since she can't just take it all home. Home isn't safe.

But... even though she's sorting slowly, taking more time to decide whether something goes or stays than she probably needs to, Door can't help breaking into a smile every so often. Home isn't safe, but after last night, for the first time since she came here a year ago, there's a chance that home is... home.

__
[OOC: Open for anyone who wants to say goodbye; if you think she'd have left a handwavy call or e-mail to let you know she's leaving, then she did. Door's heading home for good tonight, though there's likely to be a few pigeon-mails back to Fandom and possibly a further adventure or two, so feel free to keep her journal friended if you like.]

Door is standing by the window, watching a pigeon fly away. This is fairly usual for her, though the slightly sour, suspicious look on her face isn't. Might have something to do with the fact that she's sent Chimney out five times tonight and every time the message attached contained any variation of ( this ), she'd ended up with an armful of flappy, confused robot bird (//Bounced off the sky!//) and no letter home.

The last one, the one she's watching finally wing its way up and off the island, reads simply:

School is possibly turning into a prison really annoying not letting me complain about it fine. No news here, unless you care that I kissed a small furry person of indeterminate gender. Same there? Keep safe, Door


__
[OOC: Establishy, but open until sleep eats me.]

Door's decided to try a different way of arranging her journal, just for variety.

( Cut for linkdrop, as you do )

And now she's lying on her bed reading Dickens and wondering if Tiny Tim could get any more disgustingly cute. And she likes children.

[Door's ...uh. The door's open. As is the post.]

Door is writing a letter. Of sorts.

( de Carabas: )
__

....yeah, right. Door snickers, trying to imagine him caring about that sort of thing, then writes on a small slip of paper.

( de Carabas: )

She shuts the piece of paper inside the compartment, slips a short, cryptic message about how to open it into the silver tube on the bird's leg, then opens the window. Opens the window, rather, reaching for the city-smell high above London instead of the salty air of Fandom Island. It's only a smaller door, after all; an opening is an opening, and it's certainly a big enough door for a pigeon to pass through.

//de Carabas// she says to it, cooing softly and stroking the top of its head from old habit, despite a mechanical bird presumably not caring about that sort of thing.

//Chimney!// it chirps in a tone half enthusiastic, half impatient, and flutters off into the air.

Door rather hopes that was a yes, as she closes the window again, then on a whim, opens it the regular way, letting in the fresh, cool island breeze.

[The door's closed, but the post's open!]