I'm in one of those weird moods today where I need to write something, but I can't figure out what it is. So I write these oneshots instead.

Grace stood stock still in the middle of the sidewalk, staring into the shop, ignoring the annoyed pedestrians trying to make their way through the town.

She hadn't planned to stop, and she was being obvious, she knew, but she couldn't bring herself to look away.

Through the glass, she could see Wayne, and Sarah Harrigan, his – girlfriend? Fiance? She wasn't sure anymore. And with them, wrapped in a blanket and being held by Rigsby, was their son. A little baby boy, with dark hair like his father's, peeking out through the cloth.

It made sense for them to be there; after all, Sarah seemed like the sort to fill a nursery with pretty things and Wayne, as Grace knew well, was the sort of man who would buy the world if it made his beloved happy.

Grace still couldn't bring herself to move, though.

The scene was so perfect, and yet so disturbing to her tired eyes.

She could imagine, just for a moment that she was inside, in Sarah's place, instead of out in the cold, bundled up against the wind. She could imagine that it was her son in Wayne's arms, that she was the one cooing over the novel blankets and toys inside the shop.

For a moment, she could pretend she hadn't lost that.

She could pretend she hadn't lost it all.

C'est fini! It's been a while since I wrote for the Mentalist; hope it wasn't too awful!

-Reinette