Dungeons & Grandma's

The cottage sleeps gently tonight, no door creaks nor do shutters rattle. The house breathes in the soft way a child does after a day well lived, and each floorboard holds its place like a friend choosing not to disturb the quiet.

In the kitchen, the hearth is down to embers, casting a soft amber glow that leans rather than burns. One candle remains lit on the table, its wick curling in slow rhythm, as if marking the silence rather than interrupting it.

Eileen sits there, hands wrapped around a clay mug that smells faintly of ginger and lemon balm. The tea is just warm enough to keep her fingers comforted. Outside the window, the trees lean toward one another in slow conversations, branches never quite touching. While a thin breeze slips through the cracked window cold and careful. It smells like night rain that never fell, along with something ancient beside it.

She takes a sip, then sets the mug down on the table without sound.

"You don't have to be clever," she says aloud, her voice barely brushing the room. "I can feel you, dear. No matter how much you're trying to hide."

A candle flickers nearby its flame narrowing to a point, then expands slowly, the way breath settles after a long held thought.

Yet still their is no answer at least not one with voice or thought and she does not smile at the coyness for she knows what remains behind the mask, the hardness, the cruelness. "I see what you're doing," she says, eyes still on the window. "The little gifts your trying to give. A softened edge here, a comfort there, a bit of knowledge or experience gain that they should not have, it's a nice gesture, they certainly appreciate it but we both know its not just the cottage doing it."

The presence within her does not speak as mortals do. But its reply comes in gestures, in textures, in vibrations, in shapes. A soft thrum at the base of her spine, a reverberation in her chest that feels almost like a sigh not her own. The reply coalescing as impressions rather than arguments.

You've done well with them. The garden grows.
What she once feared is now fascinated with.
It is amazing seeing how he waits on weather.

Something in her throat thickens slightly with something like approval. But Eileen knows the mechanics behind the feeling which is empty of pride and love for it is attention given with the weight of an old and patient observer and not the kind that means well.

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So the words have Eileen tracing the rim of her cup with one finger, slow and steady. "I know you want to believe that they've done well with themselves and you want me to think that I am the reason for it," she says. "But I only gave them a place to grow for themselves in peace."

The candle dims and brightens again, the flame drawing tall as if caught in the breath of an unseen thought. The thickening in her throat moves down around her chest until it tightens slightly in attention. As the presence within her is forced to confront the realities of time and space.

But before she can let it wretch any control she reaches for her tea instead. "It's alright to be curious dear," she adds, taking a sip. "Curious is the beginning of a lot of better things."

Touching the table, she finds her other hand resting palm flat, wedding ring catching the low light. "But there's no power being handed out here, your not a mouse, I'm not giving you a cookie and you certainly can't have a glass of milk." she says. "No system for you to rewrite here. This isn't a dungeon, dear. This is a kitchen, my kitchen and you will learn to live within it."

The cottage sleeps beneath a gentle hush. Inside, breath rises and falls in steady rhythms, slow with contentment. The stew has been eaten, the dishes washed, the hearth left to its glow, even Eileen sleeps now.

Jumping out the window left open, Fenn eases themselves into the night as though the air itself has been waiting for him. The moonlight meeting his fur with soft familiarity, touching the tips of his ears and painting his back in silver. The breeze stirring faintly through the yarrow and the herb beds, cool without chill, scented with soil, mint, and the memory of lavender crushed under soft bare feet.

He does not wander though, for the path to the well is short and known. Yet tonight it feels longer somehow, the stones along the edge gleaming faintly, the moss softened with dew, and the rope coiled near the crank holds a stillness that suggests it remembers being used in recent memory. So Fenn hops up atop the rim to look down into it.

There is something different tonight breathing from within, something that feels like a place far far away.

For the air above the opening is thicker than before, full not with mist or magic but a kind of pause, a breath being held too long. So he sits, ears forward, posture still. There is no sound now except the wind brushing the porch behind him and the gentle hum rising from the stones, low and steady like the breath of something breathes deep beneath.

Followed by a soft voice which spirals upward. It is a child's voice, strained with distance, stretched by fear and waiting. The word she speaks is small, but it reaches him like a ripple in a perfectly still pool.

"Mama?"

The pause between words holds more than silence.

"Mama, where are you?"