One gray morning, Ivy looked out the window and could not find the world. The garden was gone. The big tree was gone. Even the fence had tiptoed away. Soft white fog pressed against the glass like a cloud that had climbed down to rest.
Inside her chest, Ivy felt something big and swirly. It was not happy and not sad. It sat there, gray and heavy, like the fog itself.
"Come look," said Mom, opening the back door. Cool air brushed Ivy's cheeks, damp as a wet leaf. Together they stepped out into the hush.
Ivy walked slowly. Every drop of fog clung to things and made them sparkle. The spiderweb by the gate held a hundred tiny beads. The blades of grass wore silver socks. Her own breath came out in little clouds that joined the bigger cloud all around.
"I feel funny," Ivy whispered. "Kind of foggy inside."
Mom crouched down. "That's a real feeling. What would you call it?"
Ivy thought. The swirly gray thing did not have a name yet. "Muddled," she said at last. "I feel muddled. Like I can't see what's coming."
As soon as she said the word, something loosened. The feeling was still there, but now it had edges. It was just muddled, and muddled was a thing she knew.
Ivy noticed the fog was not really empty. If she looked closely, shapes leaned out of it, one by one. First the fuzzy round of the apple tree. Then the crooked line of the fence. Then the birdbath, wearing a smooth gray coat of water.
"It's not gone," Ivy said. "It's just waiting to show itself."
She walked to the middle of the lawn and stood very still. Somewhere above, the sun was pushing. The fog began to thin, curling up off the grass in slow ribbons. A pale gold light seeped through, warm on the top of Ivy's head.
Piece by piece the world came back. The shed. The washing line. The little red flowerpot by the step. Each one arrived quietly, like a friend slipping into a room. And the muddled feeling inside her thinned too, until it was only a soft, ordinary morning.
"There you are," Ivy told the garden. Dew dripped from the apple leaves. A robin shook itself off and hopped along the fence, checking that everything was still where it had left it.
By the time they went back inside, Ivy's socks were soaked and her cheeks were pink. Mom made warm toast, and the last of the fog drifted past the window, off to visit someone else's garden.
That night, tucked under her blanket, Ivy watched the dark settle gently over the room, the way the fog had settled over the grass. If a big swirly feeling ever came again, she knew it would have a name somewhere, waiting. And slowly, softly, the way shapes lean out of the fog, sleep leaned in close and Ivy drifted away.