She sits on the chair and wonders. And dreams. And remembers. And believes.

Her face is set in cold hard stone, her posture unusually erect. She is still, a statue.

And she wonders. And dreams. And remembers. And believes.

Her cinnamon eyes are dull and closed, her mouth a thin firm line. Her hair is curved around her face, unmoving, just there. She is beautiful.

And she wonders. And dreams. And remembers. And believes.

She is unmovable. Unreachable. Unattainable. Not there.

She no longer dreams or remembers or wonders. There is nothing left to dream or to remember or wonder about.

She knows that Angel is upstairs. And he has a teddy bear in his arms. He plays with the teddy bear, and feeds the teddy bear, and try's to make the teddy bear laugh. But the teddy bear doesn't laugh. Because the teddy bear isn't Conner. And Angel doesn't realize that. Because Conner is gone. He isn't coming back. She'll never see his sweet face, or hear the sound of his innocent laughter. She won't have another chance to scold him for pulling her hair or for not eating his food. Because Conner is gone. And he isn't coming back.

But she can't tell Angel that. No. She cannot march up the stairs and tell him that Conner is dead. Because that would mean that she would be wrenching him out of his world where he is so happy, and into her world where she is so sad. And she can't handle the grief that will pour out of him. She can't handle his broken spirit. She can't.

So she sits. But she doesn't wonder. Or dream. Or remember.

But, she believes.

She believes that one day Angel will come out of his world. That he'll walk down those steps and he'll see her. And than maybe he'll hold her. Maybe than she will finally be able to sob out the raw emotions that she has hidden deep inside her. Maybe than.

And because of this she sits. And she doesn't stir and she doesn't dream or remember, or wonder.

But, she believes.