The slight veil of the curtain masks light rays which cause a slanted shadow to cloak the room. The apron and locket sit on their sides, their original duties eluding them as they rest under the cautious contemplation of the curtain’s shadow. Lucy wonders if her apron has begun to fade, its stitching mirroring that of her embroidered table cloth. They could have been made by a similar hand. The x’s peered back at her defiantly, as they march around the checkered squares assembling little dots like foot soldiers at a drill. She counts the stitches backwards and forwards, always in a line. She loses count only to find herself starting again. Her locket observes her behavior, its cold surface hardened into an abstract form she can no longer discern. Its oblong nature proves disorienting as there are no edges within she can seek solace or safety within. The lack of a center dizzies her as she turns it over, only to find a clasp. She fights its grip and pulls open its core only to find the same image repeated - the image of a lamp, comb, and apron on a similar desk.