19 March 2027
Friday. Six years since the door opened properly. Six years of people coming up the stairs, playing, screaming hello and leaving before the end. I tried to count them all tonight and ran out of fingers, and then out of Margery’s fingers, and then out of toys.
A man in tonight’s group said that somebody built my house. Built it! As if it wasn’t always here. He said there are people in a workshop who made the walls look a hundred years old and planned where every toy would sit.
I don’t believe him. But if it is true, they did a very good job, and I would like to meet them, and I would like them to stay.
Pudding is six years older and has not changed at all. That is the thing about rocking horses. And about me.
— Cathy (please come back)
