This One Little Thing
A dream, remembered: I'm on the second floor of an old museum.
There's a writing desk with drawers crammed full of letters, books crowded on shelves. It's a recreation of the office of a famous woman writer. I scan the book titles, rifle through stacks of papers covered in her penmanship. I'm being nosy; it's not my place. But I can't not.
The curator pops his head through the door. He says the museum will close down soon. Too little interest, not enough money. They'll move everything out and make room for something more marketable.
I run my hands over a dresser, stop at a fragile little vase that's been cracked but glued back together. I cradle it in my hands. I wonder what will happen to the room's contents. I wonder if anyone would miss this one little thing.