She was waiting. She knew it was coming. She knew it always would, eventually. When it came, she would be ready. She’d been ready for a long time. She’d been ready for nearly four years. Finally, it would come, tomorrow. Luckily, for her patience was waning.
She walked out into the corridor, and in her pyjamas, stepped out the front door. Even this early in the morning, the sun was up, and the garden let off a friendly glow. It was always warm, this time of year. She walked over to the letterbox, and lifted the flap, pushing her hand in. Nothing, again. Then she realised. It was Sunday. Mail never came on Sundays. She walked back inside; her feet soaking up the warmth the sun had placed on the footpath.
She entered the kitchen, and helped herself to a bowl of cereal. She ate it dry. She hated anything soggy, it reminded her of snow. She didn’t like the cold. As she ate, she noticed the calendar hung up on the wall. She stood up, tipping the contents of her bowl onto the table. It didn’t matter; she would clean it up later.
She tiptoed across the room, hoping not to wake anyone else. She had already made enough noise to start the dogs barking again. When right next to the wall, she glanced at the brightly coloured picture of Uluru, the centre of Australia. She then looked at the circled dates below, picking out the most important one. Tomorrow was the twenty-ninth of February. Her special day. Her birthday.