Dusty, worn shoes. Her laces tied into double knots, the same way she did them every morning. Warm air flowed through her dress and down the walkway. She had seen the same tree, every Tuesday, for the past sixteen years. Tiny fingers touched its rough bark and examined its ability to tell her exactly what she wanted to hear. Or so she thought. No qualms were met through the smiles that to her, in her world, made sense.

By-and-by, Tuesdays came and went. The identical paths she walked were filled with tiny holes filled with sand and rocks. Some of these rocks made a quaint abode in her dress pockets. Sweaty tips would caress the rocks as she walked alone. Rocks that, to her, would make endless conversation in her literature.

In the literature written, she mused about her Tuesdays spent in the park. She would keep tally of the flowers she picked, and dry them a midst the pages of black ink from quill. It was here where Tuesday found herself. Where she kept herself. Page after page were noted voyages and mysteries, written with the love and laughter that sang through her soul. They were tales of love and death, something that seemed so close to her heart.

After every adventure, she would digress to the first page of the leather bound book. Her now dried fingertips would touch the page. For a moment, she would stare, in utter silence, and touch a picture titled, "Tuesday." A title that had been smudged by many tears had. Now she would close her book.

It was time to go home until next Tuesday. As long as there were another Tuesday, she was happy. A place to call her home. A place to remember. Here, she would find herself.