Stitcher walked through the room, intent on her purpose. She took a moment to caress the back of her rocker as she almost always did. A smile flitted across her face as she remembered the hands of the man who had made it for her. It fitted her perfectly, being midway between kids furniture and the size most adults preferred. It had been crafted with love, and it showed, both in the perfect size and in the detailed scroll work of the headrest. There was a matching one on the other side of the short space, less used, and larger to accommodate it’s owner.

She moved quickly now, her small feet making tiny clicking noises on the wood floors. There was much to be done in the next hours. Food would be needed, and so she began in the kitchen. It seemed she always began in the kitchen, cooking. She ended most of her days there as well, sipping a last cup of coffee or tea with her thoughts before bed. It was the first place anyone looked for her, and she was as much a part of it as the cupboards. The kitchen with her in it was a pleasant place, and without her, it seemed barren, almost without purpose, in spite of the stove and icebox it held.

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