I sat on the edge of the sofa. The black entrance door was wide open. From the corner I could see a part of the hedge and the dried out grass in my little patio, which could do with a bit more care — had I cared for gardening as I did for admiring other beautiful gardens. From my little cottage, sitting on that edge, in birds eye view, I could see the attic window of a nearby three storey house. I never knew or saw who lived there. The curtains were always shut. For the first time, I became curious of what might be in that attic- an elderly person or antiques or just piled up furniture; oxidised books perhaps.

It was drizzling, which is why I had opened the door. The scent of evening rain smelt like wet logs. I imagined I was somewhere in a forest, in a cabin, with a blazing fire keeping me warm and a woolen blanket keeping me safe.

I imagined that my imagination would manifest into a reality- some day. With over 7 billion dreams reeling all at once, I opted to count on chance, and trust that the chances might be high.

It was still early in the evening of a Sunday but it was already getting dark and the sky was all grey — that is why I thought I might have been in a forest. Staring at the attic window, I again imagined someone would draw the curtain and wave at me, then we would set off on an adventure.

The drizzle became a rain.

It wasn’t as quiet as I may have drawn it to be. Two flies were buzzing restlessly on the chandelier. My daughter was in proximity. She often sensed the evenings when my urge for solitude was impenetrable. She took to her own artistic adventures, drawing portraits- she was good with faces. May be I was her muse on such days.

Chances in life insinuated that her and I were in some way esoterically connected, beyond the biology of genes, or because of it. At times, it seemed like she picked thoughts from my head and perfected them: both for better and for worse. She was like a halo of whatever state I may have been in.

She raised her head from her sketch pad, and for no apparent reason, said, “Mum, if I wrote a book I’d title it ‘time traveller’.”

The neighbour accentuated my reverie by playing a suitable melodic tune. I couldn’t name it but it fit. The fact that it was not ringing in my ear but was a distant wave of music, made it pleasant, at any occasion.

We had been at his next door cottage earlier that day. His music was grander than he was, unless there was a part of him I hadn’t sensed, despite my tendency to absorb people like a tissue soaks in water.

He let my daughter practice her pieces on his piano, at which point he swiftly moved to asking if I could feed his cats when he travelled back home. His two cats were a little plump and did not look much entertained by life. They gazed as though they had been waiting for the chance of a visitor to highlight their day. I was biased; I confess, of all animals, I liked domestic cats least. They made his cottage smell repulsive. “Pet boarding is too expensive so I’m counting on a few people who may be around during that time, it’s just a month,” he said. I acceptingly smiled. It could not be otherwise, we needed to barter trade favours — that’s what neighbours do.

Some things cost too much to be free; my smile was often more expensive than I planned for it to be.

Anyway, I just could not fathom why humans felt an urge to keep them in homes. Did they give a sense of self-worth? When you cared for something that absolutely relied on you and offered you companionship- kind of like becoming a parent, which I highly valued, but also thought, may have been overrated.

I’m back to imagining what chances may occur.