A whirring sound interrupted my thoughts. I was sitting on my bed leaning against the rails of the adjacent open window, reading up for yet another exam and welcomed the distraction wholeheartedly. Presently I discovered the source to be a wasp, a fairly large one at that, flying overhead, back and forth at regular intervals in and out of the room. The journey in, I observed, seemed to terminate in my bookshelf. Determined to investigate, as soon as the she made her way out this time, I took out some of the books from the top shelf (the fantasy section, so to speak) and there it was behind them, a partially built nest on the wall, halfway between Hogwarts and The Shire. Most of it was the colour of sand but a portion dark brown and moist, no doubt the room currently under construction. Needless to say I felt highly indignant at this encroachment of my property on the sly. But being the pacifist I am, I decided to proceed with passive aggression rather than violent measures to register my protest. I removed all the books next to it. Lemme see how you hide now. Hah.
By this time, the trespasser had buzzed her way in again. Curiously enough, though the nest was in plain sight now, she appeared to have lost her way. She flew about desperately, muttering to herself, bumping into Mark Twain, O Henry and numerous others on the way, none of whom proved to be of any help with directions.
I was starting to feel rather sorry for the little thing, but for fear of fatal anaphylaxis, resisted my urge to guide her. In a while she went away dejected, her buzz not quite as chirpy and her antenna hanging a little low. And then I was stricken with shame and guilt. The wood whence the bookshelf came was but the last benevolence of a fallen tree and to think myself the sole owner surely was a folly. The tiny creature had only sought refugee in an unused corner of what essentially belonged to her too – a place on this earth.
All I could do now was put the books back in their places and hope that their shade would lead her home again.