The Desolations of Devil's Acre (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #6)

by Ransom Riggs

We’re all riddled with holes, and there were days when I would’ve done anything to patch mine, if just for a while. I was glad I didn’t have a choice. Gladder still that

“Just because no one remembers your name doesn’t mean your life wasn’t worth something.”

We were not superheroes. We were not born

fighters, but had been forced into the role. We were simply peculiar.

“Nothing is dead: men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals and mournful obituaries, and there they stand looking out of the window, sound and well, in some new and strange disguise.”

In the end, our real home had always been one another. And a real home was all I’d ever wanted.