Winter suddenly woke up, surrounded by the darkness of her room, due to the sound of the train yet again. As she took in the scene and sounds of her surroundings, she let out a trembling sigh and hugged herself tightly.
Melancholy washed over her, feeling as though the worst fate in the world had been put on her back. This has been happening lately, but she felt that it was getting worse day by day.
Winter fears the dark. It was frightening and constantly reminded her of how lonely it was to be left behind. The last time she recalled such a feeling was when her mum went away to go somewhere. She waited, waited, and waited, believing her mum would come back.
She remembered how freezing and dark it was, as she lay on the wooden floor of their shabby cottage house, until the wood faeries, or rather, the Homewoods, found her.
But despite all those things she'd experienced, it also, somewhat, gave her a bit of comfort, like a lingering feeling of longing for someone that she wasn't quite sure what. It was absolutely ironic. Although still, she couldn't help the constant feeling of loneliness every time she was alone in the dark.
She tried to rock herself back and forth, calming her breathing and tried to distract herself by admiring and thinking about the mundane details of her humble abode.
Her cottage was small and rustic. The walls were made of weathered timber, and the roof was a patchwork of old shingles. Inside, the furnishings were modest. A rickety table and a few mismatched chairs stood in the tiny kitchen area, while a worn-out sofa and a low coffee table occupied the living room. The fireplace, the heart of the home, was filled with ashes from the last fire. Her room was little more than a narrow space with a small bed covered by a threadbare quilt, a wooden chest at its foot, and a single window that let in the faintest hint of moonlight.
She let out a deep sigh yet again because it wasn't working. She called out for her cat. "Matilda?" Her voice echoed softly through the quiet cottage.
She got up and moved through the darkened rooms, her hands gliding over the familiar surfaces for reassurance. "Matilda, where are you?" she called again, her voice trembling slightly. She went to the small cupboard near her bed and lit a candle, its soft glow casting flickering shadows on the walls.
She searched the small cottage, checking under the bed, behind the sofa, and even in the little nook where Matilda sometimes liked to hide. But her beloved cat was nowhere to be found. The feeling of isolation intensified, making her heart race. She stood in the middle of the living room as the weight of emptiness pressed down on her.
The candlelight cast long shadows across the room, amplifying the emptiness she felt. Winter's hands shook as she clutched the candleholder, its warmth doing little to dispel the chill of her fear. She called out once more, "Matilda, please come out," her voice barely above a whisper.
The silence that followed was deafening. Winter sank onto the worn sofa, pulling her knees to her chest. She buried her face in her arms, trying to hold back the tears.
The memories of that awful cold, dark night flooded her mind. She shivered, not just from the chill in the air but from the overwhelming sense of emptiness.
"Please come back," she whispered into the darkness, her voice breaking. She stayed like that for a long time, as if waiting for someone to rescue her—like how that person did.
In the quiet, Winter could almost hear her mum's voice, soft and comforting, telling her stories to chase away the fears. It somehow helped her calm down.
Finally, exhausted from the emotional turmoil, Winter lay back on the sofa, hugging herself. She closed her eyes slowly, willing herself to find some semblance of peace.
Morning came, and she woke up to the cheerful chirping of birds near her window. The early light filtered through the thin curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over her living room. She lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds of the morning—the rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze blew through the trees, the distant murmur of a brook, and the faint hum of the waking world beyond her cottage.
Winter slowly sat up, rubbing her eyes and stretching her arms. The warmth of the morning sun touched her face, a comforting contrast to the cold darkness of the night before. She felt a sense of renewal, a fresh start with the dawn of a new day. The melancholy that had weighed her down seemed to lift slightly, replaced by a fragile hope.
She swung her legs over the side of the sofa and stood up, her feet sinking into the worn, soft rug. She walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains, letting the full light of the morning pour in. The view outside was serene—dewdrops clung to the grass, sparkling like tiny diamonds in the sunlight, and the trees swayed gently, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind.
Taking a deep breath, Winter opened the window, letting the fresh air fill the room. The scent of earth and blooming flowers greeted her, invigorating her senses, making her feel more alive, more connected to the world around her.
Winter moved through her cottage with a newfound energy. She quickly dressed in her usual attire—an old pair of trousers and a simple worn out linen shirt, the kind of practical clothing more suited for a boy. She had always preferred wearing these types of clothing as they allowed her more freedom to move, and besides, she couldn't afford anything finer either since she's more worried about not getting hungry. She ran a comb through her unruly brown hair, tidying it up as best as she could, and rolled up her sleeves, ready to face the day.
She made her way to the kitchen, where the familiar sights and smells greeted her. The walls were lined with shelves cluttered with mismatched crockery and tin cans. A small cast-iron stove stood in the corner, a comforting presence in the modest room.
Winter set about preparing a simple breakfast. She boiled water for tea, the kettle whistling merrily as it heated up. She sliced a piece of bread, toasting it lightly over the stove, and spread a thin layer of her homemade butter and jam on it.
The routine tasks, mundane as they were, gave her a sense of purpose and normalcy. As she sat at the small kitchen table, sipping her tea, Winter's thoughts drifted back to Matilda. She still hadn't found her beloved cat, and the worry gnawed at the back of her mind. Finishing her breakfast quickly, she decided to search for her cat again.
"Matilda?" she called out as she stepped outside, her voice carrying through the morning air.
She walked around the cottage, peering into the bushes and calling her cat's name. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, its warmth spreading over the land and dispelling the last traces of the night's chill.
Winter's heart raced with both hope and fear. She couldn't bear the thought of losing Matilda. She walked to the edge of the woods, her eyes scanning the area for any sign of her cat. "Matilda, where are you?" she called again, her voice tinged with desperation.
The birds continued their cheerful serenade, and the world seemed to hum with life, but there was no sign of Matilda. Winter's shoulders sagged, and she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She reminded herself that Matilda had a knack for disappearing and reappearing on her own terms.
Returning to the cottage, Winter resolved to keep looking for Matilda throughout the day. She couldn't let the worry consume her. There was a small chance that her cat might have ventured off on some feline adventure and would return when she was ready.
She will return when she gets hungry, she silently mused.
Winter continued with her mundane tasks, slipping into her muddy wellies as she planned to gather some wild berries as a gesture of apology to Mrs. Dolly and Molly for running off yesterday without saying goodbye. She had also broken her promise to Molly too by not tucking her into bed after her shift.
As she stepped outside, the crisp morning air greeted her yet again, carrying the earthy scent of dew-kissed leaves. Winter grabbed a small woven basket from the porch and headed into the woods, her wellies squelching softly in the damp earth.