The bitter grasp of winter still clung to the early spring mornings. However, each new day saw its grip weakened. In the dim light of the modest kitchen, Patience sat close to the burning stove, warding off the cold. She rubbed her button nose, leaving thin streaks of moisture on her fingers. Above her next to the stovepipe was a small nest seated on a ledge. It cradled a robin eternally resting in dried grass and mud.

Patience mumbled to it, “Oh, I’ve neglected to dust you for a while.”

Unlike the robin in the kitchen, birds twittered lively outside, their songs joined by clucks from the hens in the garden. They went about their business despite losing their patriarch a week ago. The old rooster had survived the winter, stubbornly holding out to pass during a milder time. Patience felt guilty for enjoying the absence of her usual morning alarm, but waking up naturally to the sun warming her face was a treat.

Tiny bubbles drifted to the surface of a pot of water on the verge of boiling. Two eggs rested in a bowl on the table behind the girl. It would be a meager breakfast. Patience had run out of bread yesterday, and she did not feel like making more just yet. Other tasks needed addressing first.

She had to prepare and seed the garden. She had to go into town to sell the fabric dolls she made during the winter. She had to purchase new galoshes, a new rooster, and do a hundred other things. She might as well buy a loaf or two at the bakery since they usually tasted better than hers anyway.

The dread of going to town began to creep into her chest before a knock on the door brought her back to the present. Patience stood up with a start. Visitors never came this early. Visitors never came.

She gazed across the kitchen to the entrance. “Who could that be at this time?”

Patience had a habit of making quips to herself. The sound of her voice helped to fill her empty home. And while in years past the cottage was a bit livelier, it rarely received house calls.

She approached the front door with hesitant steps. Her fingers stiffly wrapped around the knob and turned it about as slow as an hour hand. The door creaked open. As she blinked back the bright sun, a face came into focus.

“Good morning. I have a delivery for Patience Firmin.”

“The very same,” said the girl. She rarely received packages, so she was always amused whenever something would come, even if she herself ordered an item from the stores in town.

The courier gave a timid smile and fumbled with his ledger. Patience wondered if he had been caught off guard by her scarred head. The left half of her scalp had been burned in a fire as an infant, resulting in uneven, discolored skin. Unfortunately, the large patch was free for the whole world to see as it was barren. There were no switches of false hair thick or long enough to hide it, none smooth enough to dulcify its irritable tendencies.

Patience kept the hair on her right side braided tightly along the base of her scalp to limit it from interfering with her old, sensitive burn. The bristled end of her deep umber hair shot out to the left like a crooked groundhog tail, leaving her coiffure asymmetrical and unfashionable. Worst of all, appearance aside, pain still clawed across her scalp at times.

The girl smoothed loose strands from her eye as the courier found the correct page. She exchanged a signature in the receipt book for the wooden box he carried. With the package now off his hands, the young man tipped his hat and returned to his motorcar parked neatly on the side of the road. She watched him trek through the flower garden, making sure he stayed on the cobbled path.

Once he drove away, Patience peered at the box by her feet. She did not recall ordering anything. It was rather large; on the ground it came up to her knee. She crouched down to lift it. Despite its size, the box was not heavy at all, further stoking her curiosity. Then she remembered the water on the stove.