Elena stepped slowly toward the cottage, her boots crunching lightly against the scattered stones of the path. Each step felt strange—too light, too free—as if the weight she'd carried for years had been temporarily set aside. She paused just before the door and lifted her hand to the handle, hesitating.
The wood was cool beneath her fingers, the iron latch simple but firm. She turned it and pushed.
The door creaked open with a sound that was not unkind—just old and well-used. Inside, the light was soft, slanting through lace-trimmed curtains that fluttered slightly in a breeze from a cracked window. Dust motes danced in the sunbeam, caught like tiny spirits midair.
Elena stepped inside and stood still.
The room was modest, but it carried a quiet warmth that surprised her. A small wooden table with two mismatched chairs sat beneath the front window. A handmade quilt lay folded neatly across a low bed tucked in the corner, its faded colors still holding a certain charm. The floorboards creaked softly beneath her steps, but they were clean. Someone had swept here recently.
On the windowsill, a tiny clay vase held a sprig of dried lavender.
She blinked at it, her throat tightening.
A wood-burning stove stood against the far wall, a small pile of chopped logs stacked beside it. Her gaze wandered to a shelf holding a few worn books, a tin box of matches, and a single white candle.
There, on the table, rested a small basket. She approached it carefully, as though it might vanish. Inside were three slices of coarse brown bread, a little block of cheese wrapped in cloth, and a folded note, written in careful, slanted script.
> "Welcome. You'll find kind hearts here. If you need anything, ask the priest or Martha by the well. The key is under the stone outside your door. Rest well."
Elena stared at the note, her hands trembling slightly. No signature. No grand greeting. Just kindness. Quiet, thoughtful kindness.
She set her bag gently on the bed and sat down beside it. Her eyes swept the room again. This wasn't just shelter from the cold. It was something more. A space carved out for her, untouched by the smoke of the town, unstained by sorrow.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the small wooden horse, placing it on the shelf above the bed. It looked strange there—clean, still—but right, somehow. Like it had been waiting for this new home, too.
For a while, she sat without moving, just breathing. The air smelled of old wood, dried herbs, and something faintly sweet—maybe the lavender or the warm sunlight streaming through the curtains.
Her mind wandered. Would she be able to teach again? Would the children here laugh the way her boys once had? Was it selfish to feel a flicker of something like hope?
And yet, even with the guilt still curled in her chest, she could feel something uncoiling—slowly, gently—within her.
A beginning.
She rose and walked to the door. Stepping just outside, she crouched down and lifted the flat stone beside the steps. The key was there, just as the note had said—simple, iron, worn smooth with time. She turned it in her hand, then locked the door behind her.
Her home.
Elena leaned against the frame for a moment and looked out at the hills. The village was just waking—somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, and smoke curled lazily from a chimney. A dog barked once, then silence.
She breathed deeply and whispered, almost too softly to hear:
"Thank you."
The door creaked softly as the man pushed it open, letting the golden afternoon light spill across the wooden floor. The air inside was still and faintly scented with lavender and old wood. Elena stepped over the threshold slowly, clutching the strap of her bag.
It was quiet.
Her breath caught slightly in her chest. It wasn't much, but it was more than she had hoped for.
The man stepped back, letting her explore. "Water is from the pump just behind the house," he said. "There's dry wood stacked under the bench. You'll find soup in the pot—Martha prepared it."
Elena turned, the name catching her ear. She wanted to ask who Martha was, but something about the softness in his voice made her hold the question for later.
"Thank you," she said instead.
He nodded once. "I'll return in the morning."
The door closed gently behind him. She was alone—but not as lost as she'd been before.
She moved quietly through the space, touching the edge of the table, the curtain fabric, the warm teacup someone had left turned upside down on the shelf. Her fingertips lingered on everything, as if trying to memorize it all. She set her things down carefully, placing the wooden horse on the small table beside the bed.
Later, she heated the soup. It was simple, but she ate every bite. Her stomach warmed, and something inside her softened.
That night, she slept with the window slightly open. The air was cool, and the stars were bright. Curled beneath a soft quilt, with the sound of crickets outside and a sense of strange safety, Elena fell into the deepest sleep she'd had in years.
But peace did not last the whole night.
Somewhere in the dark, her dreams twisted. They came like a cold wind: the sound of yelling, the thick pressure of smoke in her lungs, the echo of someone slamming a door. Her body remembered. Her heart did, too.
She woke with a sharp breath, tears already streaming down her cheeks.
Elena sat up slowly, her chest rising and falling in uneven waves. The quilt slipped from her shoulders, and for a moment, she just sat there in the half-dark, listening to the quiet of the countryside. No shouting. No clatter of boots on the floor above. No smoke, no fists.
Just the sound of insects outside and the pale glow of moonlight across the wooden floor.
She stood and moved to the window. The sky was dark velvet, the stars scattered and still. The moon was full and bright, its light gently washing the flowers outside in silver. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass.
"I'm not there anymore," she whispered to herself.
She turned then, her eyes catching the small wooden horse resting where she had placed it earlier. Without hesitation, she walked over, picked it up gently, and returned to sit under the window. The toy was worn smooth from years of being held — a quiet witness of comfort.
Hugging it to her chest, she let her breath slow. The warmth of the little cottage wrapped itself around her like a soft blanket.
And there, in the moonlight, with the horse tucked beneath her chin and her knees drawn close, Elena closed her eyes once more… and fell into a quieter sleep.
Her last thought: What will happen tommorow?