Every morning she woke up and polished her treasured vase. The glassy surface wasn’t transparent but molded in such a way that it is strikingly beautiful from the outside. brushed strokes of deep blues and purples blended together and gold etchings embellished stories. She kept her vase hidden. It was her most prized possession and also the most secret. Those stories were hers and hers alone. The vastness of the vase was a challenge to clean everyday, every morning, every night. Dust seemed oddly attracted to the vase, it never quite seemed to stay shiny. She poured her heart in soul into the vase, a flower grew from the depths of it and flourished. She became busier, but still spent hours of time she didn’t seem to have cleaning and shining the vase, watering and nurturing the flower. She became frantic as the flower seemed to wilt before her eyes, nothing she seemed to do would keep its original majestic glow.

—

She came in to visit the vase, to polish it for the fourth or fifth time that day, to redust, to admire. Her first footstep never seemed to touch the ground. Her eyes were locked as the vase began to wobble, the disturbance unclear.

—

Shattered glass, sounds she couldn’t here. She wept, curled in the middle of the shards. She finally saw the tears and blisters in her own skin from taking care of the vase. She was as ripped up the vase around her. Her heart and soul felt no purpose, no desire. They too had been damaged as their shelter shattered around them.