Seraphina
The rain didn't stop for a long time.
Neither did I.
At some point, the sobs became quiet hiccups. Then silence. Then nothing at all.
I stayed curled against Max, my cheek buried in the thick fur along his neck while the rain drummed steadily against his back. He didn't complain. Didn't shift away. He simply existed beside me, warm despite the cold-water soaking through both of us.
"You're going to smell like a wet rat," I whispered.
His tail gave one lazy thump against the mud.
"I know... me too."
Another minute passed before I finally pushed myself upright. My muscles protested immediately. My knees were coated in dark mountain mud, my palms stung from the gravel, and Elias's jersey hung heavily against my body, dripping rainwater from the sleeves.
Max stood the second I did. Of course he did.
"You've appointed yourself my emotional support wolf."
He tilted his head.
"Don't let it go to your ego."
He sneezed. I smiled despite everything.
"There she is," I murmured to myself. "Thought I'd lost her for a second."
Together we trudged back toward the cottage. Inside, warmth greeted us immediately. The old heater clicked softly beneath the window while the smell of cedar lingered in the hallway. I grabbed the largest towel from the linen cupboard and dropped onto the floor beside Max.
"Your turn."
He sighed dramatically.
"Oh, don't act like you've never been towel-dried before."
I rubbed vigorously over his ears first. He hated having wet ears. He tolerated exactly twelve seconds before beginning the familiar battle of trying to escape while simultaneously demanding more attention.
"Oh no you don't."
He twisted. I grabbed him again.
"Sit."
He sat.
"Good boy."
I scrubbed the rain from his thick coat until the black fur puffed back into place instead of lying flat against his ribs. When I finished, he shook anyway. Water droplets exploded across the hallway.
I stared.
Max stared back.
"...That was personal."
He wagged once before trotting toward the fireplace, perfectly pleased with himself.
I peeled Elias's jersey over my head. For a moment I simply held it. It still smelled like him. Rain. Cold mountain air. Tobacco that clung stubbornly to wool no matter how many times it was washed. Comfort. Safe. Funny how people become smells before they become memories.
I knew washing it would erase most of that, but I hoped that there would still be a slight smell of him left or I’ll maybe go borrow another one…
With a small sigh, I poured detergent into the machine and laid the jersey inside as gently as if I were putting someone to sleep.
The lid closed with a soft click. The washing machine rumbled to life.
Round and around.
Isn’t it interesting how people think washing machines clean everything. Sometimes they just spread the stain around until you can't see where it started.
The shower was almost too hot. Steam curled around the small bathroom while muddy water spiralled down the drain. I stood beneath it longer than I needed to, letting it pound against my shoulders until my skin turned pink.
Eventually...
I dressed in soft pyjamas, tied my damp hair into a loose knot and wandered back into the kitchen. The kettle hissed. Gerald and Frank were exactly where I'd left them.
"Are you okay, Sera?" Gerald asked softly.
"She’ll be fine," Frank grumbled.
"Won’t you Ser’?"
“I’ll be fine Frank. I am okay Gerald, just a bad day…”
"Yeah, just a bad day, remember that time when you tried baking banana bread and you almost burned the kitchen down. That was a bad day." Gerald grumbled.
"That was a bad day but also a smelly one the house reeked for a few weeks.” Frank’s ceramic face crinkled with a smile. I snorted into my tea.
“Come on guys, let's go to bed.”
Morning arrived quietly. Not because mornings were quiet, they weren't. They lied.
The kettle hissed on the stove, birds argued somewhere beyond the birch trees, and the old floorboards beneath my feet protested every step with tired little groans. The cottage had a heartbeat of its own. It sighed. It creaked. It settled.
People always assume silence means peace.
It doesn't.
It simply means nothing has screamed...
Yet.
I wrapped both hands around my coffee mug and wandered toward the front window, watching pale ribbons of mist curl lazily through the valley. Overnight rain still clung to the rose bushes, each tiny droplet catching the weak morning light until the garden looked sprinkled with shattered glass.
Pretty. Dangerous. Like most beautiful things. The oversized blue jersey slipped off one shoulder. No. Before you get ideas… I know exactly what you're thinking. "She's wearing his jersey." Congratulations. You have functioning eyes. Don't make it weird. I’ve been wearing it for a while.
Actually… Go ahead. I'm making it weird enough for both of us. A soft snort escaped me before I lifted the mug to my lips. The coffee was still too hot and I burned my tongue, but it was so worth it. Behind me, ceramic scraped against wood.
"You're smiling."
Gerald.
I didn't bother turning around.
"I usually do."
"Not like that."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You've smiled three times in six minutes." Frank sighed dramatically from somewhere near the bookshelf.
"Four."
"I wasn't counting."
"I was."
"I wish you had hobbies."
"I do."
"You don't."
"I judge yours."
Fair enough. I wandered into the kitchen and reached for the honey. Empty. I stared into the jar as if disappointment alone might refill it. It didn't. Typical.
"You've got that look again," Gerald observed.
"What look?"
"The one where your body is making breakfast...but your brain is somewhere six-foot-three with grey eyes."
I nearly dropped the spoon.
"I don't know anyone six-foot-three."
Frank cleared his throat.
"Elias."
"I know someone six-foot-two."
Gerald sighed the exhausted sigh of a tiny ceramic man forced to live with an idiot.
"The denial phase is fascinating."
"I am not denying anything."
"You've stolen his jersey."
"It was cold."
"You've smelled it more than a few times."
"I absolutely have not."
"You literally buried your face in the collar five minutes ago."
"I was checking the detergent."
"Mhm." Frank nodded thoughtfully.
"Fabric softener analysis. Very scientific."
"I hate both of you."
"No," Gerald corrected.
"You love us."
"I tolerate you."
"You named us."
I pointed my spoon at him.
"One more word and I'm replacing you with a garden flamingo."
"You wouldn't dare."
"I absolutely would."
"You'd miss me."
"...Maybe."
"There it is. The truth."
I rolled my eyes so hard they practically filed for workers' compensation.
Honestly. Imagine being psychoanalyzed before breakfast by decorative lawn ornaments.
Therapy had really gone downhill. I carried my coffee toward the front porch, nudging the screen door open with my hip.
The valley greeted me with cool mountain air, damp earth, and the soft perfume of pine needles warming beneath the timid morning sun.
Today was cleaning day. Oh, how I loved cleaning day.
There was something deeply satisfying about it.
Cleaning wasn't just about dust or fingerprints or muddy floors.
It was about putting the world back where it belonged.
Returning everything to its proper place.
Erasing the little bits of chaos that quietly gathered while nobody was looking.
Some people called it obsessive. I called it maintenance.
After finishing my coffee on the porch, I wandered back inside, humming softly to myself.
I changed into my designated cleaning clothes: an old white T-shirt permanently decorated with tiny bleach freckles and a pair of faded denim shorts that had survived more cleaning days than I cared to count.
Perfect. I tied my hair into a messy knot before heading for the kitchen.
The tap squeaked as I turned it on, cold mountain water rushing into the large yellow bucket. I poured in a careful measure of soap before adding a splash of bleach, watching the bubbles bloom across the surface like tiny white clouds.
The familiar smell filled the room. Fresh. Clean. Lemony I pulled the bright yellow rubber gloves over my hands, snapping the cuffs against my wrists. Behind me, two tiny gasps echoed through the cottage.
"Oh no..." Gerald muttered.
I turned slowly. The two garden gnomes were standing exactly where I'd left them on the windowsill. Or… Attempting to leave. Frank had somehow shuffled himself a whole three inches farther toward the curtains. Gerald pointed dramatically at the bucket.
"It's cleaning day."
Frank's painted face filled with horror.
"I hate cleaning day."
"You don't even get dirty," I pointed out.
"We absolutely do," Gerald protested.
"Do you know how exhausting it is standing outside being admired all day?"
Frank nodded solemnly.
"The pollen.”
"The dust."
"The bird that sneezed on me last Thursday."
I folded my arms.
"The bird did not sneeze on you."
"It absolutely did."
"It was a sparrow."
"It was disrespectful."
I laughed, picking them both up.
"Come on."
Gerald immediately began squirming in my hands.
"Seraphina... think about this."
"I am."
"No, properly."
"I have."
"What if..." he began carefully.
"We simply lower our hygiene standards?"
Frank nodded enthusiastically.
"I support this proposal."
"You two are impossible."
"I prefer 'vintage,'" Gerald corrected.
I carried them toward the sink. The moment they saw the brand-new toothbrush lying beside the bucket, both of them froze. Frank looked horrified.
"...Is that..."
"...new?" Gerald finished weakly.
"It is."
They stared at each other.
"Oh no," Frank whispered.
"The new one gets into the tiny cracks."
"It absolutely does."
I couldn't stop laughing.
"Don't worry."
Neither of them looked reassured.
"It's a soft-bristle toothbrush."
Gerald sighed dramatically.
"She says that every time."
"And every time," Frank muttered,
"I lose another layer of dignity."
"You'll survive."
"I survived the Great Moss Incident of last autumn."
Gerald shuddered.