She erected a one-room house, a place with a very small footprint — it did not impose itself on anyone and went unnoticed in the main. The house felt very safe, as she could see every angle of the space by turning around in a circle. In fact, she could touch the beams that supported its four walls by simply holding out her arms.
Without any warning, seemingly from the wind, a gift arrived. Unbidden, a grant to enlarge the space was put into her hands, and she wondered if she should, if in fact, she could, accept it. Could she, she wondered, learn to live in a larger place? Would she like that? If she could not spy all the corners and all the roof and floor within her immediate sight, could she manage? If there was a hallway, and at the end of it, another room, that would mean she would have to walk some steps to visit the further reaches of where she lived. In such a scenario, it occurred to her, something might happen and she might not know, immediately, that it had. She could not see multiple rooms at the same time.
A knot formed in her throat. She felt afraid.
Something bad might happen, she reminded herself. If she used a chisel and hammer, if she set about knocking out a wall in this space, the elements could rush in. She might become cold, and intruders could intrude. Better to be safe, she thought. She put the gift outside the front door, attached a note: Return to Sender.
She turned around, and she turned around, surveying her little space and all it’s familiar shadows. All is well, she thought, in my little home. This is a sheltered place to be.
A knock at the door. She turns around and bumps into the knob, takes it and opens the door. There, on the porch, sits the gift. Her note is gone, and in it’s place is a large, shiny bow, ready to be unfurled anew.