Sophia’s father had always been a great stickler for rules. One of her earliest memories - him in his blue velvet armchair, her on his knee.

“Sophia,” he’d said, his whiskers tickling her cheek as he pointed at her drawing. “You’re outside the lines.”

“Only a little bit,” four-year Sophia had replied, a nascent pout tugging at her lips and furrowing her brow. It was only a smudge. Barely noticeable, really.