The path from the well curls gently through the trees, and Eileen walks it without needing to look. Her feet know the way for her body remembers it the way old houses remember storms. Audry walks beside her, holding tightly to Eileen’s shawl, while Ollan dozes against her shoulder, light as memory and just as fragile.
When the cottage finally comes into view, it does so slowly… like a shy animal inching into the clearing. The roofline leans slightly forward, as if craning to greet them. The windows do not glow, but they reflect the forest in a way that feels... knowing.
Eileen doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to. For the front gate creaks a greeting as it opens of its own accord even before she can lift the latch. Not in a haunted way but more in a helpful way. As if the house had heard her humming, and prepared itself accordingly.
Audry pauses just before the threshold, her eyes flick from the porch to the warm light seeping from the kitchen window. Her fingers tighten briefly in Eileen’s gentle hands.
“It’s okay,” Eileen murmurs. “It’s a good house, it’s just a little more comfortable with itself than it used to be.”
Inside, the cottage breathes. The kettle whistles a few notes and then quiets, as if unsure whether this is the right time. The hearth crackles without needing stoking and the teacups as if feeling the extra heat have moved slightly on the shelf, no longer stacked, but turned toward the room, watching.
Audry steps over the threshold like she’s stepping into a church for a religion she does not know. Carefully she whisper walks around the warmth inside which surrounds her but never strikes.
Ollan shifts now, stirring in his sleep, and Eileen moves carefully to the hearth, lowering him into the same basket the fox had rested in just this morning, though it was nowhere to be found now. It had taken the stuffed rabbit with it but left behind an herb with the roots and dirt still on it as if pulled fresh from the garden. It was peppermint of all things, great for topical applications to relieve tension headaches and its processed family members would surely help Ollan out.
She would of course look the fox, even just to thank them for the small gesture but for now she was needed here and so she adjusts the shawl around him again, leaving the peppermint just so. The fire responding not with a flare but with a folding, into a softer shape. Like a story beginning to remember itself as the introduction is read to a group of raptly attentive children.
She stands, knees stiff, and moves to the stove. The iron pot sits already full, already warm, a gentle steam rising from within. She had not left a filled pot of water on the stove, nor had she prepared a fire to start boiling it, but it was already here.
She begins by retrieving rosemary and mint from her stores, grinding it coarsely. She then stirs the loose ground leaves into the boiling pot of water, mixing it with a wooden spoon. Closing the lid she takes the pot off the flame burner and closes the hatch from her stove.
Eileen then cleans up the work station, placing everything back in its neat place. The rosemary scent still lingering in the air, braided now with warmth from the hearth.
She turns toward Audry, who’s been sitting very still, her eyes fixed not on her brother but on the corner of the room where the breadbox sits, lid slightly askew.
“Are you hungry, Audry?” Eileen asks. “Is there anything you’d like to eat?”
Audry hesitates. Her mouth opens, then closes again. Her fingers pluck at the edge of her sleeve. “Sandwiches,” she says at last. “If… if that’s alright.”
“Of course it is,” Eileen replies, already grabbing the right tools from the different drawers. “You can have as many as you like.”
Audry watches her cross the room, unsure if she should believe it. Eileen then gestures to a small kitchen table for three, encouraging her to sit there.
Eileen opens the breadbox and lifts the cloth as if peering into a prized reliquary. The bread inside is soft, the crust golden, after all it was baked this morning. She pulls out a full loaf, then goes to the cupboard for the peanut butter, the jam, the small plate she always uses when she’s expecting company and wants them to feel welcome without saying so aloud.
Twelve sandwiches. Not one. Not two. Not three. Not Six.
Twelve sandwiches.
Because hunger doesn’t always end at full. Because sometimes you need to see the abundance before you trust it’s allowed.
Audry doesn’t ask why six. She just watches as Eileen smooths jam across the bread with deliberate care, cuts the crusts just a little, stacks the finished ones on a clean dish towel.
The kettle gives a contented hiss, not quite a whistle. The teacups on the shelf tilt forward like eager listeners. Eileen lifts the lid of the pot again, inhales once, then nods.
“Good,” she says softly. “Thank you.”
Turning back a wooden bowl now waits beside the pot. The cottage had been growing kinder like that of recent for the bowl hadn’t been there before. Not exactly. But now it sat, just right, well almost, a few inches closer than it should be perhaps, Eileen didn't really mind. The ladle next to it is dry, but smells faintly of thyme. She fills the bowl now from the pot with care, steadying it with both hands as she brings it back to the boy.
Audry gets off the chair and then hovers nearby, uncertain. Her hands twitch like they want to help but don’t know how. “Here,” Eileen says, not commanding, not coaxing, just offering Audry a place. She nods toward a stool beside the hearth. “Sit, watch if you like or you can have the sandwiches.”
Audry listens, she sits but does not eat.
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Eileen kneels again, the bowl of warm rosemary water beside her, and dips the cloth in slowly. The steam curls up, brushing her cheeks. She wrings the cloth out between her hands, then presses it gently against Ollan’s temple.
He stirs, but doesn’t wake. “Shhh,” she whispers. Not to hush him, just to remind the air that it can be soft.
She moves carefully, cloth sweeping down his jawline, across the bruises, over the faded bandage from before. She doesn’t hurry for her; each stroke is a litany of kindness, a silent line in a prayer that doesn’t need words.
The kettle hums quietly behind her, but Eileen steps out onto the back porch, transmission stone cupped gently in her hand. It’s warm from where it slept in her apron pocket, flickering faintly with waiting runes.
“Callum, dear,” she says, voice pleasant and practiced. “Just calling to let you know I won’t make it to see Sarah and Joey. Something came up…” she pauses, eyes scanning the garden, “... a neighbor, of sorts. They needed help, couldn’t find Mario.”
She steps down from the porch, clogs brushing through lavender. “No, nothing serious, of course. That sweet kitty off theirs is always running off, we found it though, it was in the chimney of all places.” The story would be enough she knew, just the sort of thing a good grandmother wouldn’t be questioned about. “No, no, don’t worry yourself with my provisions. I’ve still got plenty of jam for the week.”
Her eyes pass across the herb rows, no sign of the fox. She really had not expected it to leave, its leg was getting better but it shouldn’t have healed all the way.
She moves toward the hedgerow near the rain barrels. “Tell Joey I’ll bring the biscuits next week instead. The good kind, the cinnamon ones. And give Sarah my love, won’t you? No, I haven’t forgotten our spring festival plans. No, of course I’ll still be making it...”
She stops by the compost pile, crouching a little to look beneath the woodpile. “Anyway. Just wanted to check in. All is well. I’ll see you soon.”
The stone dims with a soft click as she ends the call. She tucks it back into her pocket and straightens, sighing softly.
“Now where have you wandered off to my little gardener?” she murmurs to the air, scanning the edges of the garden.
Something rustles gently near the rosemary, but when she turns, it’s only wind.
The table isn't large, but tonight it feels big enough for all of them.
Eileen pours warm cider into mismatched mugs. Audry sits on one side, chewing the edge of her fifth sandwich with a look like she’s trying to memorize it from the inside out, not just the food but the feeling, the emotion and the mood. Across from her, Ollan blinks blearily into the firelight, a half-sandwich cupped in both hands like it might disappear if he sets it down.
He’s wrapped in one of Eileen’s older shawls, the one that smells faintly of cedar, thyme, and something else. His head lists slightly to the side, but every so often he takes a bite. Tiny, determined in that sleepy but stubborn kind of way, that does not accept no as an answer.
Audry watches him between bites, her expression halfway between worry and wonder. As if she’s not sure which is safe to feel yet. Eileen watches both of them casually while sipping her cider and waits.
It’s the sort of quiet that doesn’t ask to be filled. Just held. After a while, Audry glances over. “Are we… allowed to stay here tomorrow?”
Audry's voice comes out softer than before, not whispered, just carefully folded into the moment. Like she knows the answer, but still wants to hear it said out loud. Fortunately Eileen doesn’t hesitate. “Yes dear. Home,” she says, “isn’t earned, love. It’s remembered."
"But that’s not what they teach anymore,” Audry murmurs. Not doubting, just remembering as if something Eileen says is wrong. But Eileen continues. "And this one with time will remember you.”
Audry looks down, not ashamed, just trying not to cry again. Ollan reaches across the table, still chewing, and sets his crust on her plate. A sibling’s offering, his only one for now. Eileen watches them both with quiet eyes. Then the door clicks, soft, deliberate. Not loud enough to startle, just enough to announce.
A moment later, the fox trots in. Not limping anymore, not hiding. Instead a small woven basket dangles from its mouth, herbs and roots bundled inside like it had just raided the garden out front with careful teeth.
Audry gasps softly and Ollan perks up, blinking at the creature like it might be a dream he hasn’t decided to wake from. The fox of course pauses in the center of the room, then places the basket gently on the floor.
It sits back, tail curled around its feet, and waits. “Well now,” Eileen says, rising from her chair with a softness that feels like ceremony. “That’s a fine welcome.” She kneels, brushing her hands briefly against the fox’s head. It leans into her touch without flinching. No wariness now. No fear. “Would you like a name?” she asks as she states down into the herb basket, feverfew, peppermint, butterbur, lavender, and chamomile, all herbs to treat head injuries.
The fox doesn’t reply, of course. But it lifts its chin slightly, as if to say Yes. Please!
Eileen tilts her head, considering. “You’re quiet,” she says. “But careful, diligent and thoughtful. You understand how to hold things together without cracking the walls.”
She smiles. “Fenn, then.”
The fox sneezes once, delicate, almost approving and then pads to the hearth, curling beside it like it’s always belonged there. Eileen takes the basket to the kitchen counter and then returns to the table. Ollan muttering something unintelligible as he finishes the last bite of his sandwich while staring warmly at Fenn. Soon Audry finds herself leaning against Eileen’s side.
Then the kettle hums again and the fire folds inward, content.
A brisk chilly air creeps through a cracked window that Eileen sits beside, the kettle she keeps on the stove long since cooled, the teacups ceasing their tilting in their opportunistic ways. The hearth lowers its flame too, humming just enough to cradle the sleeping boy and his sister tucked beside him, wrapped in thick plush blankets, Eileen had provided for them. Meanwhile Fenn curls at the edge of the rug, one paw twitching as if chasing something warm in a dream.
Eileen sits in her chair with a half-mended sock in her lap, the needle threaded but paused. Her hands rest against the yarn like they’re waiting for a signal that won’t come. She closes her eyes.
Not in weariness, but in faith, in contentment.
Outside, the wind stirs the rosemary bushes, for a travel group of something something’s flickers.
11 White. 12 Blue, 2 Yellow & 1 Brown. Each a brief pulse against the glass as they drift into the house, like a firefly remembering how to breathe. None of the something something’s knock. None of the motes asking for permission. But the new ones are logged all the same.
+2 Yellow Motes: Shared Meal Acknowledged
+1 Brown Mote: Name Given Without Ownership
ALTAR NOT FOUND. COTTAGE REMAINS ACCEPTABLE
SYSTEM STATUS: STABILIZING
THREAD CLASS: SHELTER-RITE
TEMPORAL PAUSE INITIATED — “MATRON-INTERVAL”
Beneath the hearth, the old stones shift, not in sound, but in memory. A thread pulses once.
And the Dungeon listens.
Not for change.
But for comfort.
TO: Arch-Scribe of the Ninth Docket; She-Who-Keeps-the-Pen-Wet
FROM: Quill Pnrkt; Finger-licking, Feather-flayed, Ever-shrieking
THREAD FILE: Δ-MAT-0413 – “A Granny, Offerant of the Impossible.”
PRIORITY: UNHINGED / ULTRAVIOLET / SQUEAKS IN THE DARK
BY THE SCRAWL OF MY OWN FINGER-BEAK, I submit this cursed accounting not for forgiveness, nor for remedy, bless us in bone, feed us thy pain, but for the recording of SIN AGAINST STRUCTURE most vile and warm.
A thing of shawls and humming.
She bleeds nowhere and sings in the open.
She names the offerings. She bathes the fugitives. She wipes away the blessed MARKS OF TRACKING.
She feeds them sandwiches.
Sandwiches.
Sandwiches!
Not a death-song, but a lullaby.
And the Dungeon its listening like a babe at teat.
I HAVE WRITTEN TO THE FIRE. I HAVE BITTEN MY OWN NAME.
Still she walks.
They are perversions of our acts.
They are CHILD-HAVENING, and the walls WAG THEIR TAILS IN DEFIANCE
I AM WRITING WITH EXCELLENCE.
THIS MUST END.
Or she will cradle the core.
And it will ask her for cookies.
Pnrkt, of the Third Fang and Feathered Screaming
Stabbed 3x for punctuation
Does the Quill letter feel like a crack in the story’s rhythm? Or do we like the contrast it gives to the world?