Bright sunlight filtered through the open library window. In the soft band of light, multiduous dust motes danced.
Kitty opened her eyes.
She stood up and stretched. Her aged joints hurt from falling asleep in her chair.
Kitty reached for the empty tea glass. She slowed her hand. The sketchbook was not where she had left it last night. Had someone been looking through her drawings?
The thought filled Kitty with a brief flash of anger. These drawings were hers, her private thoughts. No one touched them, so much as spoke of them without permission.
Kitty searched through the pages, to make sure nothing had been bothered. When she came to the last sketch, she breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing was changed. She was about to close the sketchbook when she saw a shadow on the last page, like the faded image of a drawing behind another. A peculiar tension seized her throat.
Kitty turned the page.
On the page was a portrait of herself, ethereal in quality, perfect in capturing her essence. In the portrait, she was neither old nor young, but in a perfect homeostasis betwixt the two. There was a slight, almost glowing nimbus about her head, elaborating out of the corona of her hair. The expression on her face was one of regal agony, as if she held her head high, uttered not a word on the matter, but was dying inside, perhaps already dead. Which was true. Painfully true.
At the bottom of the page was the phrase, "The Uncommon."
And, close beside that, a single letter, in spidery, flowing script.
N.
Kitty closed the sketchbook and looked ahead. She drew a deep, shuddering breath. She closed her eyes and fought the tears that threatened.
She stayed that way for perhaps a minute, until her hands ceased their shaking. Then she opened her eyes and hefted the sketchbook, which weighed more than it ever had.
She stared at the sketchbook's cover. Who had sought to cause her such pain? Who would go to such lengths to tear her heart so violently?
Kitty lifted her shoulder bag and placed the sketchbook reverently within. She would keep the drawing. She would wear its memory as a badge of strength. Whoever her enemies were, she would not bow and weep at their feet.
She would state her defiance in her silence.
She would not let herself be hurt.
She would hold her head high, though inside she was dying.
Kitty replaced the atlas on its shelf, and exited the library, with the sunlight illuminating her forsaken teacup.