Mia stood on the threshold of the attic nursery. Light spilled through the half-drawn shades; dust motes danced to echoes of children’s laughter. The rocking horse swaying every so slightly as if someone just alighted from a ride through the countryside, slaying dragons and rescuing princesses. Crisp, white cotton nightclothes and rich velvety red robe laying on the play chest waiting for another someone to don them, then off to bed as the dollies already have. Soon both to be tucked in, prayers said, with fairy tale-filled heads, saying sleepy goodnights.

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