Quiet Things
745 Words
Seren counted the cracks in the ceiling each night before bed.
There were thirteen. The largest one split diagonally across the far corner, like a wound that never healed. Every time it rained, it leaked just a little. She kept a bowl beneath it and a rag on the floor, and no one ever came to fix it. It was just one of those things. Quiet things. Forgotten things.
Like her.
The healer, Maela, slept in the next room—old, half-blind, and always cold, even in summer. The only reason Seren still lived here was because Maela refused to move out, and no one else wanted the house. Seren cooked, cleaned, did the errands, and patched the roof when it cried too hard. She didn’t mind. Not really.
Except on nights like this.
The dreams hadn’t come, but she’d woken anyway—eyes wide in the dark, heart thudding too fast. The moonlight spilled across the wooden floor, soft and blue, but something in her skin felt tight, restless.
She sat up.
The wind murmured through the cracks in the shutters. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once, then went silent. Seren pulled on her shawl and stepped barefoot across the floor, careful not to creak the boards.
The cottage was quiet. Too quiet.
She opened the front door.
Ashveil slept in a hush. No lights. No sounds. Just the occasional flutter of leaves and the hum of something deeper, something beneath the earth that made her breath catch.
It felt like the air was holding its breath.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring at the stillness. Eventually, she went back inside, locked the door, and tried to sleep.
Morning came with pale skies and a skyful of clouds threatening rain. Rina was already at the bakery when Seren arrived, kneading dough like it had personally offended her.
“You’re late again,” she said without looking up.
“Not late,” Seren replied. “Just unmotivated.”
“Same thing.”
They worked in silence for a while, the kind that felt more like routine than comfort. Rina wasn’t one for soft words or unnecessary affection, but she kept an extra pastry aside for Seren every morning, so that was enough.
“How’s Maela?” Rina asked eventually.
“Complaining about the chickens.”
“She doesn’t own chickens.”
“She says they gossip too much.”
Rina snorted. “She might not be wrong.”
They both smiled faintly.
It wasn’t until after the bread was cooling and the sun rose higher behind the clouds that Seren finally spoke again.
“Have you ever felt like… something’s about to happen? But you don’t know what it is?”
Rina gave her a sideways glance. “That’s vague.”
“I know. Just… this feeling. Like the air’s changing. Like something’s watching.”
Rina didn’t answer right away. She wiped her hands, then leaned against the wall.
“There’s talk,” she said quietly. “From travelers. Of patrols doubling near the eastern border. Beasts in the woods that don’t leave tracks. One merchant said they passed through the Ash Road and every bird was gone. Just… gone. No sound.”
Seren’s breath caught.
“You didn’t think to mention this?”
“I didn’t want to scare you.”
Seren opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her heart beat unevenly.
“Besides,” Rina added, forcing a shrug, “rumors are half lies and half wine. It’s probably nothing.”
But Seren wasn’t so sure.
That feeling in her chest was growing—like something ancient had turned its gaze toward her and hadn’t looked away.
That evening, she walked to the meadow beyond the village, where the wind carried the scent of wild mint and river fog. It was a quiet place, far from watchful eyes, where she could breathe.
She sat beneath a twisted yew tree and watched the clouds roll above, darkening slowly. A storm was coming. You could feel it in your bones before it ever reached your skin.
She pressed a hand to the dirt.
Nothing.
No visions. No strange warmth. No sudden flicker of someone else’s memory.
And yet…
She still felt it. Just out of reach.
As if the world itself was shifting. Turning toward something it had long ignored.
Something—someone—was approaching.
But not yet.
Not today.
She pulled her shawl tighter and began the walk home.
- Writer
