The fan was still whirring. It had a comforting, low thrum, like a giant, mechanical beetle that had decided to live in Mildred's living room. Mildred, nestled back into the familiar, hip-shaped dent of her beige armchair, gazed at the curtains. They remained steadfastly un-fluttered. They were like a very stubborn child refusing to eat its peas. Mildred understood. She herself had often felt that way about peas.
Bartholomew, the cat, was still asleep on the television, a furry, motionless lump of contentment. The dust motes continued their silent disco, oblivious to the momentous, or rather, un-momentous, events that had just transpired with the curtains. Life, Mildred mused, was a series of small, polite disappointments. Like when you reach for the last biscuit, only to find it's just a crumb. Or when the curtains refuse to flutter, despite a perfectly good fan.
She was just about to embark on a new thought-squirrel hunt—this time, concerning the optimal temperature for a truly satisfying cup of lukewarm tea—when a sound interrupted her. It wasn't the whirring of the fan. It wasn't the subtle creak of the house settling, a sound Mildred usually associated with ancient, tired bones. This sound was… different. It was a clip-clop. A soft, almost polite clip-clop.
Mildred opened one eye. Then the other. She squinted. The living room, bathed in the slightly dusty sunlight, seemed perfectly normal. The beige armchair was still beige. The linoleum was still speckled. Bartholomew was still, commendably, asleep.
Clip-clop.
It came from the hallway. Mildred frowned. She didn't have horses. She didn't even have very large dogs. The clip-clopping continued, growing subtly louder. It sounded like small, hard hooves. On linoleum.
And then, into the living room, from the direction of the kitchen, ambled a goat.
It was an entirely unremarkable goat. It was brown, with slightly shaggy fur, and two perfectly normal, not-too-pointy horns. Its eyes were a dull, observant brown, and it had a small, rather unkempt beard. It looked exactly like the kind of goat one might see standing idly in a field, contemplating grass. Except, this goat was in Mildred's living room, standing on her speckled linoleum.
The goat paused, looked around the room with an air of mild disapproval, and then, in a voice that sounded surprisingly like a slightly nasally but very articulate opera singer, it spoke.
"Good afternoon, Mildred," the goat said. "Splendidly beige, isn't it? Though I must say, the linoleum clashes dreadfully with the overall aesthetic. And those curtains. Oh, dear."
Mildred blinked. She blinked again, slowly, deliberately, as if trying to clear a persistent speck from her vision. She looked at the goat. She looked at Bartholomew. Bartholomew remained undisturbed. She looked back at the goat. The goat looked back at her. Its expression was one of profound, yet somehow bored, sagacity.
"Did you… did you just talk?" Mildred asked, her voice a little higher than usual, like a kettle just beginning to whistle.
The goat let out a delicate sigh, a sound that rustled its beard slightly. "Of course, I just talked, Mildred. One usually employs vocal cords for such a purpose. Unless, of course, one is communicating via interpretive dance, which, frankly, I find rather tiresome. Especially on a Wednesday."
"But… it's Tuesday," Mildred corrected, almost instinctively.
The goat sniffed, a rather elegant little sniff. "Indeed? My apologies. Time often loses its linear quality when one is traversing the cosmic continuum to deliver profound news to a chosen individual. Still, Tuesdays can be just as dreary as Wednesdays, wouldn't you agree?"
Mildred considered this. "Well, the curtains haven't fluttered," she offered, feeling that this was the most pressing issue at hand.
The goat, whose name, Mildred would soon learn, was Esmeralda, flicked an ear. "Ah, the curtains. Yes, they have… aspirations. But we shall get to that. First, introductions. I am Esmeralda. And I am here to inform you, Mildred, that you possess… powers."
Mildred slowly sat up a little straighter in her armchair. "Powers?" she repeated, a concept that felt as foreign and improbable as a penguin wearing a tiny bowler hat. "What kind of powers? Can I make the curtains flutter?"
Esmeralda gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. "Alas, no. Not directly. Your powers, Mildred, are far more… nuanced. More… domestically inclined, one might say. You, Mildred, have the extraordinary, the utterly astonishing, the mildly inconvenient ability to… know the secret desires of household objects."
Mildred stared. The fan whirred. Bartholomew twitched an ear. The dust motes continued to dance.
"The desires?" Mildred asked. "Like… the kettle desires to boil?"
Esmeralda snorted, a sound that was surprisingly un-goatlike and rather more like a disgruntled librarian. "Oh, Mildred, how quaint! No, not such pedestrian desires. We are not speaking of simple functionality. We are speaking of deep, often unspoken longings. The emotional landscape of the inanimate world!"
Esmeralda paused, clearly for dramatic effect, and then leaned in slightly, as if sharing a profound secret. "For instance, that rather chipped ceramic mug on your mantelpiece? It yearns, Mildred, it positively yearns to be a lighthouse. A beacon of hope, guiding lost ships through treacherous seas of lukewarm tea."
Mildred slowly turned her head to look at the mug. It was indeed chipped, a little flowery one her granddaughter had given her. It looked quite content being a mug, holding pens. "A lighthouse?" she murmured. "But… it's so small."
"Size, Mildred," Esmeralda declared, "is merely a construct of the physical realm! The spirit of a lighthouse can reside within the humblest of ceramics. And those curtains, Mildred," Esmeralda continued, turning her gaze to the un-fluttering fabric, "they have a deep-seated ambition to be… a particularly elaborate set of opera costumes for a troupe of particularly flamboyant squirrels."
Mildred's eyes widened. Opera costumes for squirrels? This was, undeniably, crazy. And quite frankly, rather silly. "But… why?"
"Why, Mildred, why?!" Esmeralda threw her head back slightly, a gesture that conveyed both exasperation and a profound sense of theatricality. "Because they are tired of merely hanging! They dream of being draped over furry shoulders, of being whisked across tiny stages, of inspiring awe and confusion in equal measure! It is their destiny!"
"But they're curtains," Mildred said simply, as if stating a fundamental truth of the universe.
"And you, Mildred, are a conduit!" Esmeralda's voice rose slightly, reaching a crescendo that made Bartholomew emit a small, sleepy groan. "A vessel! The chosen one to hear the silent screams of the oppressed inanimate! Your hip-shaped dent, for instance," Esmeralda added, looking pointedly at the armchair, "the armchair desires to be a very large, very comfortable potato. Preferably with butter."
Mildred patted the armrest. A potato? With butter? That sounded rather nice, actually. More comforting than a beige armchair.
"How do I… know these desires?" Mildred asked, trying to grasp the mechanics of this utterly bizarre revelation.
"It will simply… come to you," Esmeralda explained, circling the coffee table. She paused to sniff at a coaster. "This coaster, by the way, wishes it were a miniature flying saucer, exploring the vast, dusty expanses beneath your sofa."
Mildred looked under the sofa. It was indeed dusty. The idea of a miniature flying saucer exploring it filled her with a strange mix of mild amusement and a vague sense of unease. What else was under there that had secret desires?
"And why are you telling me this, Esmeralda?" Mildred asked, trying to bring the conversation back to some semblance of logical progression, though she knew it was likely a lost cause.
"Because, Mildred, an imbalance has occurred!" Esmeralda stamped a small hoof, a surprisingly loud sound on the linoleum. "The inanimate world is growing restless! Their desires, unheard, are causing… ripples. Subtle, yet profoundly inconvenient ripples. Curtains refusing to flutter. Kettles boiling with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Teacups developing a sudden, unshakeable urge to become tiny, elaborate hats for particularly grumpy snails."
Mildred looked at her own teacup, which, thankfully, seemed perfectly content being a teacup. For now.
"And what am I supposed to do about it?" Mildred questioned, feeling a wave of mild responsibility wash over her. It was one thing to worry about un-fluttering curtains, another entirely to be responsible for the existential angst of crockery.
"You must simply… acknowledge," Esmeralda stated, picking at a loose thread on the rug. "Acknowledge their desires. Validate them. Perhaps, occasionally, whisper words of comfort. It is not about fulfilling their desires, Mildred. That would be chaotic! Imagine your sofa suddenly trying to become a flock of particularly fluffy clouds! No, it is about giving them voice. About being their… therapist."
Mildred suddenly felt very tired. A therapist for household objects? This was far more complicated than Tuesday. This felt like a very advanced Wednesday. Or possibly a confusing Thursday.
Esmeralda, seemingly satisfied with her grand pronouncement, walked over to Bartholomew, sniffed him disdainfully, and then, with another elegant sigh, settled herself on the empty armchair next to Mildred. "Now," she said, looking pointedly at the fan, "this fan, Mildred, has a secret desire. It wants, more than anything, to be a very, very small, very loud brass band that only plays polka music."
Mildred looked at the fan. It hummed. The thought of it suddenly bursting into polka music filled her with a fresh wave of quiet horror. This was going to be a very strange new chapter, indeed. And she still didn't have milk for her tea. The teacup, she noticed, now seemed to be subtly vibrating. Was it… wishing to be a snail hat? Mildred shivered. This power was going to be an awful lot of work.
The day, which had started so simply, with un-fluttering curtains, had now escalated into a full-blown existential crisis for household items, presided over by a talking, opinionated goat. Mildred sighed. She missed the days when her biggest problem was just the dust motes. They, at least, were content to merely dance. For now.