My teacups and teas rested in their usual places. Nothing was missing or misplaced, as far as I could tell.
But… I still didn’t feel quite right. The unease persisted.
I took a moment to arrange my boxes and baskets in a perfectly straight line and made a mental note to pay more attention to them. Maybe more tidiness would ease my worries.
Then I moved on to my sitting nook. The same blankets were strewn over my comfy chairs. The same stack of journals sat on the side table with my favorite mug on top, the one with the chip in the handle. No issues there.
The same sad, spindly houseplant sat withering away, dying in the corner. Nothing strange there, either. I’d always been a plant murderer.
Deafening thunder cracked outside, followed by an immediate flash of lightning. It seemed to last for ages, echoing in my ears like an insistent drum. I slapped a hand over my chest to soothe my heart’s frantic beating.
The gentle rain turned into a heavy downpour.
I moved on to my bedroom. My low bed sat in the center of the room as it always did, covered with colorful quilts and a handful of fluffy pillows. Brambleby snored quietly beneath the covers. He hadn’t moved a muscle.
My trunk of clothing stood vigil in the corner. It overflowed with fabrics shoved messily inside instead of neatly folded. Again—normal.
My small collection of trinkets rested on shelves as they always did, some covered with a thin layer of dust from misuse.
I checked the windows, trailing my fingers over the sills, tugging on the latches, inspecting for cracks or broken panes. There were none. I yanked the curtains shut again.
I returned to the kitchen, sinking onto a stool at the dining table and propping my head up with my hands.
Nothing was amiss. I’d proved it with my own eyes.
Still, I felt strange. Like something was off.
I stood with a huff. “I’m just going to check outside, very quickly. I’ll just be a moment,” I called quietly to Brambleby in case he could hear me.
I tugged my cloak on, hugged it close to my body, and buttoned the slotted hood around my antlers to cover my head from the downpour.
A little rain wouldn’t kill me.
I slipped out the front door.
The rain was pouring down in massive rivulets, creating a near opaque sheet to obscure the forest from view.
The front overhang couldn’t even keep me dry with the wind whipping the rain into a frenzy—I was immediately drenched. The water leached the warmth from my limbs, chilled me to my bones.
I persisted.
I stepped from my porch, onto the crispy, browned grass around my property. My hooves squelched in mud.
A shiver jostled my shoulders.
My porch looked fine.
My windows looked normal from the outside, too. I shoved at them to be sure. I rounded the corner, taking a quick lap around the cottage, poking and prodding as I went.
The rain continued to pour, pelting the ground, splashing in puddles, echoing off my cottage’s roof. Any other sounds were drowned out, anything more than a few feet away blurred into a mirage.
I made it back to my porch. I found nothing amiss.
I couldn’t decide if I felt better or worse as I slipped back inside and draped my sodden cloak over its hook. Clearly, nothing was wrong.
But that meant that the strange feeling would remain unexplained.
I toweled off my hooves and stripped out of my drenched clothes, wishing desperately for a clothesline to hang them on, but mine was outside, and would be no help.
