The seething heat of summer held on tight for three more weeks and then, as if some grand listener knelt down on his floor to flip the vinyl on the record player, autumn was put on play. She brought along warming hues of sienna, gold and ochre to help compliment the crisp, cool and turquoise skies.

Monica admired the view outside as she stood in front of the sink in the break room. There was a sink in her classroom, but there was no window and the break room's sink was larger. She had about thirty paint brushes to wash. The kids had spent all morning smearing watered-down tempera paint over die-cut newspaper leaves. They also slopped runny glue over the layers of their papier-mâché pumpkins.

The glue-soaked brushes were the most pleasing to clean. She had to squeeze them over and over between her fingertips, rubbing dish soap into their bases until all the residue was washed out and there wasn't a trace of stickiness behind. When she was done, she laid the paint brushes down, alternating the direction of each, on top of a dish towel.

Not wanting to go back to the classroom just yet, she looked around the break room for something helpful or time-consuming to do. She caught a streak of yellow as her eyes passed over the far end of the room. She placed her mid-length hair into a small knot at the nape of her neck and walked towards the lost-and-found box.

Monica couldn't believe her eyes. There, stuffed underneath various articles of clothing belonging to both children and adults, was a sweater that belonged to Astrid. She could feel her heart flit about in her chest as she reached on bent knee to pick it up. She held the creamy yellow sweater in outstretched arms. It had two, thin gray stripes surrounding its loose and worn collar. It was baggy on Astrid. She would pull the sleeves down to her fingertips and the children would ask her where her hands went.

"That's a silly question," Astrid said. "You know who I am. I'm Little Miss No-Hands."

The kids would shake their heads and stick out their tongues or laugh at her. Monica remembered this sweater so well because she had seen, and noticed, Astrid wearing it more than a couple days in a row, as winter blossomed into spring. Even though it fit her poorly, it somehow managed to make her look even more charming, friendly and young.

She brought the sweater up to her nose and took a deep breath in. Her eyes stung with tears. It still smelled a little like Astrid. Nag champa from her home and the fruity, coconut-lime body spray she loved to spritz herself with in the mornings. Monica envisioned Astrid at the beach. Sunset. A huge fire blazing before her as she brought her guitar onto her lap and began to play. The fire sang in her eyes while her fingers glided up and down, tightening and releasing.

"Hello, dear," Tabitha walked into the break room.

Monica frowned and balled the sweater up into her arms.

"Hi," Monica said.

"Did you find something in there that's yours?"

"Yes," Monica nodded. "I had been looking for this old sweater of mine everywhere."

Tabitha wasn't looking her way. She was busying herself with the coffee maker. "You'll be needing it soon enough."

"Yeah, the weather's definitely been cooling down lately." She felt a smile take over her face. A genuine smile. She caressed the sweater's fabric in her hands. "I should be getting back to work now."

Tabitha looked up to smile, "Of course. Hope the rest of the day goes well for y'all."

"Thanks."

Once Monica was back inside her classroom, she crouched down to get her tote bag out of the cubby she used to keep her belongings in. She folded the sweater in half and then rolled it up before shoving it inside.

Taylor yanked at her shirt. Monica looked behind her shoulder to see his big, blue, searching eyes bore into hers.

"What took you so long?" he slurred, his thumb in his mouth.

"Ooey-gooey paint brushes."

"Gross," he popped his thumb out of his mouth and pulled on her arm. "Come with me. I have something to show you."

"Alright," Monica grinned and let Taylor drag her over to his five story block tower.