The glimpses of sunshine and chanced birdsong did much to brighten Lucy’s existence in that dim attic and the comforts of her basket home kept her tucked away from the worst of the drafts. For these things she was very grateful. There was, however, one more thing that Lucy had. It was perhaps her greatest treasure even though it could not be seen, or heard, or felt. It was glorious and heartwarming in ways no dormer window or velvet cushion could ever hope to be and it was never out of her reach for it lived deep within every fiber of her little wooden being. It was her ability to remember, and although each recalled event was no more than a snippet of the past, over the years she had stitched them into a patchwork of memories that comforted her from the inside out.