I sat at the dining table, slouched forward, on my elbows, my hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea. An empty plate sat nearby, dotted with the crumbs of a pastry. Next to it, a stout, porcelain teapot, decorated pink with roses. The steady beat of the grandfather clock echoed from the open drawing room, filling the absence of an evening breeze trembling the windows.
It was dark. By now, the sun was long gone. The lights were off, except for the ceiling light above. I was frugal with my power usage, since I was not connected to the grid. Shadows engulfed the room, leaving me in an island of light. Like a boat in the dark sea. I often spent the evening like this, enjoying a cup of green tea and reading a book.
Except, tonight, I was not reading.
The book was still on the shelf. I had not retrieved it. Instead, I stared across the table, watching my unexpected guest for the night. The little girl was gleefully sipping her cup of tea, seemingly oblivious to the fact I was watching. Her entire focus was on the cup of tea I had offered her, occasionally stopping to blow at the hot steam. Though, I reckoned she did it for amusement.
I did not speak, for I did not know what to say. I could not take my eyes off this mysterious girl. She appeared so pure and innocent, ignorant to the fact she was in a stranger’s house. Out in the middle of the woods. Sitting across from them. Drinking what they had offered. Furthermore, it did not bother her that this stranger was clearly watching her. Every move she made. Without a sound. Nevertheless, she behaved as if this was her abode. It was a peculiar feeling, as it made me feel like I was the stranger, the one who should feel out of place, and she was the one at home.
Finally, the girl addressed my gaze and crossed eyes with me. The cup still pressed in front of her mouth. Unprepared, I awkwardly smiled back. “Is the tea to your liking?”
She lowered the cup and nodded enthusiastically, smiling ear to ear. A pure, juvenile smile.
I laughed a little. “I am glad you like it.” The girl blew at the steam again, watching it swirl into the ceiling, before taking another taste. Easing myself, I took a sip as well, though I could not help but glance at the girl once again as I did so, hiding my face behind the cup with both of my hands.
We sat again in silence. What felt like several minutes passed by. Disinterested in my drink, I let myself wander. I stared past the girl into the dark drawing room, separated from the dining room only by a solemn, three-seater couch. It was faced back-to-back with the girl’s chair, accompanied by a small end table under its right arm. The grandfather clock was to the left, beside the hallway threshold. An ancient furnishing that has passed through several generations of my family. Now it was stuck with me, still counting time as accurately as my forefathers praised it could. Adjacent to the clock was a bookcase, filled to the top with books. Some new, mostly old, leather-bound copies. There was hardly any room on the three-shelved case for anything more. Books were crammed in on their sides, on top of the upright books, and several pyramids of books stacked on top of the bookcase. I considered purchasing a second case to house them, but it felt like too much effort to haul one out to the woods where I lived. I did not want to shelve the books elsewhere either. These artifacts were a distinct part of the room. I used to spend the evenings falling asleep on that couch, where my father would read stories as I dozed off. High tales, novelisations, a few biographies mixed in there. I would lay there, my head up against his thigh, legs dangling off the cotton armrest as Father sat next to the end table, reading a book out loud under the candlelight.
Most of the living room was under a lower ceiling. The second floor was small: two bedrooms, one attic, adjoined by a mezzanine hallway that overlooked the open space. Leaning over the handrails, one could see sneak a peek at the couch occupants and view the dining room and kitchen in its entirety, since the kitchen was only separated by a half wall. Anything beyond the couch was hidden under this structure. The right side of the room had a wooden staircase that led up to the mezzanine. Under the stairway was a fireplace. Though I hardly used it anymore, for lack of lumber, I used to sprawl across the thickly-woven carpet next to the fire during the winter, hugging a pillow and watching the flames, whenever Father was unavailable.
This was a familiar house, all right. Full of memories. I eased myself to believe I was back at home. The only novelty was the overpowering fragrance of fresh flowers. It was normally stale, as I kept my freshest collection at the shop in town. I leaned my face over my hand, peering off into the back corner of the dining room. Unless it was my imagination, they seemed to bloom stronger than I had found them. The girl’s… magic, or sorcery, whichever is appropriate, was quite potent. Though it was fascinating, I wondered if it was a mistake to let her in. The full extent of this power was still a mystery. Strangely enough, however, I did not feel scared.