The flowerpot went to the kitchen windowsill.

Its outside had a faint blue streak where she had cleaned it badly, and there was still dirt around the rim.

“Mia likes it here,” she said.

A jar of pencils stood beside it.

Later, Mia decided the pencils fit better in the pot, and her mother agreed.

That was all the pot needed to become that evening: somewhere for pencils, not a means of household access.

Her mother took out the locksmith confirmation.