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Maeve’s feet swung slightly above the rocky road, as she waited for her bus to arrive. It was three minutes behind schedule. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let her head sink back into her shoulders, fighting the impulsive aggravation she could feel rising to the crown of her head. A useless emotion, she told herself. Unnecessary and unhelpful. We can discard this one, and so she did.

The ground beneath her was paved with tar so black, that its depth began to unnerve her. She let one of her feet brush along the surface, as to disrupt the disquieting stillness, and a few pebbles shuffled aside. Fixing her attention on one of the pebbles, much tinier than her fingernail, she pondered the difference she had just made in its insignificant existence. It occurred to her that this pebble had likely gone through more changes than Maeve might ever in her own lifetime. At one point, a member of a larger rock or likely part of the road itself, this pebble, though fully unaware of the privileged experience of those that draw breath, had also been molded by the hands of time and circumstance. Something reminiscent of envy lilted behind Maeve’s brow and before it could take hold, she dug her foot into the ground a little deeper. Once again, she took notice of the quality of her thoughts that day.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to the midday sky. This kind of sky, the kind of sky that was a single color blue as far as her eyes could see, filled Maeve with an incomparable serenity. A virgin sky. A sky that the universe must have dreamt up just for this day, and just for Maeve in this moment. The cloudless, blue expanse reminded her of the walls of a nursery that she frequented in her dreams. Off-white clouds, made of felt, would dangle from a wooden mobile, above a crib. Maeve never dreamt of a baby and was unsure if there ever was one. But without sadness or a sense of void, Maeve would sit in the nursery by herself, reading a book.

When the bus arrived, all the seats but one were taken. The empty seat was cornered between a window and three passengers, whose faces hung wearily in the stuffy atmosphere. Although Maeve hated the small violation of the strangers’ personal space, her tenuous mood could not support the notion of standing for the duration of her half hour bus ride. She politely said excuse me and squeezed her way into the seat. The smell of homemade bread and tomato soup filled the space around her and she took delight in this private experience, shared by her and her passenger companions. Careful not to be noticed, she turned her head slightly to her left and inhaled, confirming that it was indeed the merry red sweater of her neighbor, to which she owed the small pleasure. Maeve normally hated strong scents, especially of food where there was none, but she let this one cling to the inside of her nostrils and let her eyes rest to hum of the bus’ engine.

Later that evening, Maeve would lay on her back in bed, and let her mind settle into heavy wakeness. Darkness, sights, and sounds, indecipherable would usher her into a dream state and the next she was aware, she would be walking across the creaky chestnut floor, and into the familiar nursery. Like moths to a flame, her eyes would be drawn to the crib at the far end of the room. Normally empty and expectant, she would notice a teddy bear in the crib, along with something small, reserved and convex in silhouette, sitting above it on the window sill. A shift would tint the air with a subtle note of precarity and Maeve’s head would swivel, unable to fight the urge to look over her shoulder, and before moving to examine the new additions to her room, she would walk back and close the door behind her. Maeve would silently reproach herself for her indignation, and consider that she might be grateful that someone had placed a toy in the crib for her. But still, she wouldn’t be able to deny the feeling that her private place had been tampered with. Right before unease could settle into her chest, she would recognize the red sweater on the teddy bear. She would lift the stuffed animal to her nose and breathe in, but the curious garment would offer no scent, and just like a mother might muse at her child’s innocence, the scentless sweater regarded Maeve, as if to remind her that this was only a dream.