Daybreak

I

They began appearing when I was eighteen.

First, it was just a couple of stones every week or so, little rainbow coated rocks shimmering like stars in the light, some still coated in mud where they had been dug from the ground. Once there had even been a small chunk of amethyst, its surface glittering with hairline fractures, bending the light within with a bright purple shine.

I loved those rocks.

Three stones turned to seven by the end of the week, maybe a small clump of dandelions appeared on my windowsill where crystal-esque pebbles had lay the day before.

They only ever came in the mornings though. Almost as if the small bits and bobs held their own form of welcome to a bright new day.

After a while it began to turn to a game, waking up before daybreak, waiting for the mysterious treasure-giver to show their face in the light. I was so determined most nights I barely gained any sleep, scared I would blink and miss the moment they appeared.

It took only a handful of tries before I caught the perpetrator: a little horned lark barely larger than my own clenched fist. The bird would fly up to my second-story windowsill in the early mornings, just as the sun was beginning to peak over the horizon, chirp a small tune after placing gifts down, then dart off just as quickly as it appeared.

It was a strange exchange, I'll admit to that much.

Most treasures would ultimately fall apart after a couple of days- leaves grew soft and fragile, and flowers wilted. I pressed a handful of the colorful blossoms between the pages of sketchbooks I always kept with me, and I tucked away whatever treasures that didn't wilt or crumble safely in a small Christmas tin.

Occasionally I would leave little gifts of my own out on the windowsill, piles of birdseed, or a small rock that had caught my eye on the walk home. The bird would always enlighten me with my offerings, poking at the seed and the rocks vanishing, replaced by another small collection of treasures the next morning.

"Bree?-"

It was sweet how we had grown so accustomed to each other over the months of visits, it almost felt like I had made a friend only I knew about-

"Bree!"

The tap on my shoulder had me stumbling back to the present, standing slack-jawed in front of a colorful illustration of a horned lark standing upon a pile of pebbles, poised mid-peck.

Right, an art gallery.

I was at an art gallery.

With who again?

"Damn it, Bree, don't make me have to make a scene here because I will make your afterlife a living hell."

"Trista! Calm down! She's just lost in her head, see? She's coming back out of it," Amelia's hand was nearly as tentative as her voice as she touched my shoulder. "Bree? Honey, now's really not the time to be zoning out, Trista's making death threats."

"Hey! I did not spend this past week getting us tickets to this opening for her to stare into space for the whole damn thing."

"That is fair."

"Damn right it is."

"Please quit saying damn, you've made your point."

"Damn it, no I won't!"

"Ladies, ladies, you two can calm down, I'm fine, I swear," I laughed nervously, their loud voices doing more than drag me out of my daze, catching sight of the people beginning to look in our direction from Trista's outburst. If there was one thing I hated more than zoning out in the middle of a public space, it was getting attention for doing so.