Every Saturday morning, Ana did the same thing. She vacuumed the living room. The machine roared like a hungry beast, swallowing dust, hair, and everything that had fallen from the dinner plates the night before.

“I remember the spoon,” it whispered. “The spoon that lifted me from the bowl. The boy’s pajama sleeve brushed against me. He laughed – milk sprayed everywhere. I flew like a comet. And then… the warm darkness under the cushion. I’ve been counting his secrets ever since. He wants a dog. He told the cushion, not his mother.”

She put it on the windowsill.