The small animal in the next room is rearranging his living space. I can hear things being banged around and dragged about on the floor.
Earlier he asked me to write a secret room into what I am working on. He may get one, but his expectations of what I am writing, and the reality, may be rather different.
The shuffling stops. I hear feet approaching. The door handle slowly turns.
“Dad, can we make muffins?”
“Ok. Give me 10 minutes.”
The train of thought dissipates like a whisp of smoke caught in the breeze.
I had better go, its muffin time. The secret room will have to stay hidden, even from me, for now.