Hello! This for the most part will be a series of drabbles until I find the plot within it! I do not own any of the characters, well any that are known to you. Any characters that belong to the Jim Henson company are theirs and I am merely playing with them.

| prompt = Outside the window |

Keys slipped from slender fingers, jingling against the wooden bowl they landed in. The soft thud of a coat and shoes being removed with little care sounded soon after as the brunette trudged into her kitchen. The buzzing of fluorescent lights sounded as she flipped the switch and blinked as the harsh unnatural light flooded the small space. Her kitchen was nothing to write home about, or anywhere for that matter, the small one bedroom apartment was hardly a decent place to live. As she moved across the yellowed laminate flooring she grabbed the kettle, filling it with water before setting it on the stove to heat. A yawn parted full lips as she moved out into the living room, switching a lamp on before flopping with as much grace as she could onto the couch.
Head reclined back against the arm of the couch as she closed her eyes for a moment, just a moment before her phone buzzed in her pocket. A groan accompanied the rhythmic buzzing as she fished it out of her back pocket, glaring at the influx of text messages she was receiving. All happened to be from her editor.

Mark: Sarah, we need to go over those last few chapters you wrote. I thought we had agreed on a different plot twist.

Mark: Sarah! This is important! You need to listen to me about these corrections!

Mark: Fine. We can talk about this tomorrow.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow was saturday and if Mark thought that she was going to be spending her weekend listening to him bitch about not using his ideas in her book he could fuck off. She let the phone slip from her hand and bounce on the cushion as she sat up, making her way back into the kitchen. All she wanted was a cup of tea, and some mindless reality tv. Sarah had no idea what to do about Mark, he wasn't a bad guy, just a writer of his own trying to worm his way up the ladder as fast as he could. While he had a good idea every now and then his ideas were to….blanant. Not every book has to end in the main character sacrificing themselves in a heroic tragic death.

Rummaging through her cabinets she chose between her three mugs, picking the one that had a small owl with text that read 'Owl you doing?', before reaching in to grab her tea of choice. The soft scent of the vanilla chamomile tea bloomed as she poured the hot water over it, grabbing a spoon and the honey pot as she moved back into the living room with her treasure. Taking a better look at the space she smiled at the piles of books, trying to think of where she might squeeze in another bookshelf. Most surfaces in her house were filled to the brim with books, a good deal of them ranging from fantasy to mythology books. The 28 year old had stubbornly refused to outgrow her love of young adult fantasy novels and enjoyed when they were based on real myths and legends.

In the back of her mind she knew why she refused to let go of magic. Why she clung to it with a desperation akin to the way your lungs cried for air when you were drowning. It had only been ten years, ten years of convincing herself it hadn't been a dream. That she had really walked through the walls of the labyrinth and slipped into that magical wonderful world. Well most of it had been magical, and she guessed if she thought about it, the experience hadn't really been that wonderful. Yet she couldn't find it in herself to deny the wonder of the place itself, regardless of her time spent there. Writing had been a passion of hers since she was young and it had been full of stories. Sarah had lost count of the time she'd poured into books fiction and non-fiction, looking for any trace of the magic she'd seen. Her only sound source, if one could call it that, was the little red book that she kept tucked away in her nightstand. The stacks of books that littered her house were her comfort, inspiration and drive.

Setting her mug down on the small open space on her coffee table she shot a glare as her phone vibrated once more, it's screen illuminating the cushion below it. Rolling her eyes she snatched the remote, pointedly flipping it onto her preferred show as if that would show Mark. Her first novel had been a bigger success than she could have hoped for, catching the attention of a new publisher as well. Sarah mindlessly pulled the tea bag from her mug, placing it on a small plate that must have been left out from a late night snack during a writing night, before she mixed in a bit of honey. She didn't spend much time watching mindless reality shows, preferring plays, documentaries or other media that could give her any kind of inspiration.

As she nestled into the folds of her worn leather couch and draped an old afghan across her lap she reached for her tea, intent on adding in some honey before she lost herself into the new documentary she'd heard about. The darkness of her balcony door was illuminated by the reflection of the screen, only just catching the two small reflections. Her hand froze for a moment as her mind whorled, brown eyes blinking and squinting to try and see what it was. Too late she thought to get up and take a closer look as white wings stretched out into the glow of the television, allowing her a glimpse of the cream colored owl that had been sitting on the other side of the glass door.

Memories of her days growing up and playing in the vibrantly green park flickered in her mind, the creamy feathers of the owl she had often caught in the branches of the trees at the edge of the meadow matching the cream dress she would wear. How often had she seen the owl before...before her time in the labyrinth? Her mind raced to think of the numerous occasions but came up cloudy, as though a sudden fog had lowered itself onto those memories. A scowl darkened her brow, drawing delicate features together as she resumed the action of adding honey to her tea. Perhaps she ought to invest in a camera for her patio, who knew how often this nocturnal visitor was, well visiting.

Sarah let out a sigh as she brought the cup to her lips and took a quick sip of the hot liquid. The brunet tried valiantly to push away the small blossom of hope that had sprung up in her mind, in all ten years since the labyrinth she had not been able to speak to any of its inhabitants after a few months of returning. She was stuck here, drowning herself in fantasy in a vain attempt to get an ounce of that feeling she had felt when she ran through those glittering walls. She blinked away those memories and returned her attention to the tv, trying to get invested in the documentary playing but unable to keep her eyes from flickering to the sliding glass door to her right.

That little blossom of hope set its roots to work, digging their way deeper into her heart.