Someone’s knocking, but I’m not afraid to answer the door. There’s a tea party in a garden, and I put my cloak on with a flourish, swirling it out. The fabric gleams.
It’s sunny outside, and I think my grandfather is nearby. The party feels lively, but old-fashioned. There’s a record player, and a frosted white buttercream cake with yellow sponge and pretty sugar flowers. I’m wearing a long dress under the cloak. My hands are not my hands — they are someone else’s fine-boned fingers and oval-shaped manicured nails. This fazes me not. I feel, as I step through the door, very loved.