rewrite of graffiti passage in wuthering heights

The ledge where i put my candle had a stack of mildewed books in one corner. Bigger than the ledge itself, the books seemed to be held in place by spider webs. Despite the dust, letters scratched into the windowsill glowed as if struck by a colder light than my candle. The writer was prolific. Mostly a name repeated in every kind of character—Mary. But the Marys were surrounded by all kinds of scratches: dogs, butterflies, fences. I moved my candle around the frame, dripping wax on my arms and the ledge, careful not to set the frame on fire. She forgot my name. Scratched like a threat on the bottom, close to the window, covered in dust. 

I didn’t feel scared. I looked forward to seeing how the white bright letters would walk into my dreams. My name has never felt like an omen, more of a welcome mat. I wanted to sleep in the window, if I lived here I might have made some hammock to sleep in while the stars shone on my face, wrapped up in a frame of Marys.