Sunday breakast
She hides. Who do you hide from? The morning rays catches the tinted windows. The curtains rustle softly in the wind. Wait, did I just hear a windchime? So many things she's seen. She knows what the real world is like. She's not a child anymore. She was never a child. The flurry of activity down the hall. The buzz of conversation and amused laughter. The pitter-patter of flip-flopped feet against the kitchen tiles. The sizzle and smell of pancakes. I try to draw her out of the shell. She's so shy! I would have never thought when I first met her. The others smile. The kettle whistles. Coffee is ready, almost. She's still hiding. This is getting annoying. What is she so desperate to hide from anyway? My eyes sweep over the hall. Magazines strewn over the coffee table. A spaghetti stain on the ottoman. The bottle and glasses from last night, propped on the sideboard. Signs of the people who live here. She's hiding from herself. Breakfast is ready. I yawn,