A young woman swung her legs leisurely as she sat in an old oak wood chair sipping tea. She heard a soft chirping from outside her window and stood up and glanced out her window. A small cerulean bird was resting on the pear tree outside the woman's cottage. Her timid, nature only showed when she encountered other humans, which had only happened once. When she was around animals she felt a sense of serenity, even if she couldn't understand them. She rested her hand on the windowsill and in a bright, merry voice, she began to converse with the tiny creature.
"Hey where are you from, little one?" The woman stretched her left arm past the window-frame and pressed a finger against the branch in front of the little bird's feet. She smiled and tilted her head to give the bird assurance that it was safe to come to her. When the bird didn't respond, she moved her finger and placed it on its feet, pressing against them slightly. The bird backed up on the branch, but eventually cocked its head in rejoinder and stepped onto the perch. Gradually, the woman brought her finger towards her and when it had about reached her chest she lifted it up towards her eye-level and used her other hand to pet the creature's head. Unfortunately, it did not agree with her gesture, and it jumped off her finger and left her.
Alone again, eh? It's only three in the afternoon though. They normally are all out this time of day.
The woman poured herself another cup of tea and sat down again. Outside her window, the sound of the warm summer breeze rustling the leaves mixed with the little birds' chatter. The young adult peered at her reflection in the tea. Her cream colored wavy hair was tinted caramel and so where her cherry eyes. Her pale skin was of a pretty tan and for a moment, the woman wasn't herself. In that little tea cup, another woman was there, a woman who couldn't go outside either. Knowing that, the woman pressed her finger against the tan liquid and watched as the world distorted, and she didn't feel so alone.
A soft whistle of a bird indicated its passing by along with the gentle hush of the humid breeze that brought a small daisy into the house. The flower landed in the woman's tea and seeing that tiny life, the woman smiled. She stood up and gathered some books from the shelves to read, her favorite-the pale blue one that sat atop the dresser beside a vase and her mother's picture, placed on the very pinnacle of the pile, with a pressed flower as a bookmark in the page.
The woman rested the many story books on the wooden table before taking a seat and opening the one from past generations. The pages were wrinkled, dog-eared, torn in some spots, and the some of the writing was smeared. It had been written many centuries ago, and was no longer able to withstand the new age. The only story that was still fully intact and readable was hidden within the end of the book and it told such a sad tale. It was the tale her mother wrote, about a medusa that lived before the young woman. The medusa had created a never-ending world that only brought misfortune to those who didn't live there. It had separated one's family and destroyed another. The woman ignored the fact that the birds had stopped their chatter and became completely absorbed in the story when suddenly-
knock, knock