Poire’s pastel green pencil case bobbed up and down the river until it was seen no more. As her fellow classmates, who had thrown it in, walked away laughing; a part of her resisted jumping off the bridge to retrieve it.

But Poire did not want to drown again, at least, not yet.

She gave the river one final look before turning around. Clutching the straps of her backpack, Poire walked on, back to the place she disliked calling home.

It had been a difficult day at school. The teachers would not listen to Poire, and after a moment, she too had stopped trying to hear them.

The world was grey, and unbelievably calm, in a way that unsettled her so. She walked up stone steps and knocked on her door. The lion stared into her soul, but she paid no heed to it, for as long as he could not speak; it was okay.

Not a soul answered.

So Poire knocked again, and again, until it was clear to her that nobody would arrive. Bending over, she grasped one of the doormat’s corners between her little palms and grabbed the key that hid beneath her feet. Her father always left it there in case of emergencies; and by that he meant when her mother would choose to leave Poire for the church. Poire had often found it amusing, how her mother never sensed its presence, despite it being right there.

She unlocked the door; greeted by the privilege of not having to wash her hands with what her parent referred to as the blessed waters. Perhaps Poire should have considered a way to have fun with this newfound freedom, yet, she did not feel as if she were free. It was like a pair of invisible eyes were rammed into her shoulders and watching each and every one of her movements.

She took off her shoes and waddled over to the kitchen. After pressing packs of ice to her swollen cheeks, Poire indulged in a slice of pear-flavoured pie, realising that, upon finishing, she would need a new set of pencils and pens in order to finish her homework for the day.

And, with her mother gone and an absent father, it was clear that she was going to have to figure this out on her own. But how? she wondered, if I leave now, and mother comes back, she will be quite worried. And I do not want to worry her, for she is already troubled.

As she made her way up to her room, Poire eyed her father’s office with fear, and perhaps a tad bit of fascination. They were never allowed in there, not even to greet him, or wish him good night. He had made it clear to them the first day they moved in. Poire remembered his words; “You may go anywhere but in here.”

And in fact, she had never even dwelled past the entrance. However, the connection of offices leading to stationary, and stationary leading to being able to complete one’s homework and not being yelled at the next day at school, was quickly made in her brain.

I’m going to do it, she thought, I won’t touch anything but what I need.

Poire took one step forward.

As long as I stick to my plan, nothing wrong will come of it.

She reached for the golden handle.