#FlashFictionMagic: The Cottage

 

Sorcha woke early, and was surprised, after four days of rain, to see the sun. In her dressing gown and slippers, she moved from room to room of the cottage, opening every window to let in the crisp autumn air. With the curtains pulled back, the whole house felt open and bright, filled with the promise of a beautiful day ahead. 

Before the bathroom mirror, she greeted her reflection with a smile, resolutely resisting the urge to turn away from the garish tendrils of the scar on her cheek. There was too much hope on a day like this to dwell on what couldn’t be changed. She splashed water on her face, dabbed gently with a towel, then strode down the hallway to the kitchen. 

Stirring oatmeal over the stove, Sorcha glanced at the calendar, and decided the weather must be an omen. As indicated by the tiny blue X in the square for today’s date, this was the day Rigel would return to the island. She told herself it was merely the promise of new library books and maybe some chocolate that caused her heart to skip a beat, but it was a lie that held no water. 

After breakfast, she went to get dressed. Bypassing her usual overalls and flannels, which hung at the front of the walk-in closet, she stepped more deeply inside, seeking out the long dresses she had once loved. The yellow-and-purple paisley matched her scar too closely, and the pink sleeveless linen was best suited for summer, but the red corduroy jumper over a thick white turtleneck was just the thing. It was surreal to realize that, despite how much time had passed, the dress still fit perfectly. She wondered which other pieces of her old life might still be salvaged.

Sorcha had just finished lacing up her boots when she heard the doorbell chime. She thought of Rigel’s face, the slight scruff of his beard, and the deep brown eyes, the skittishness she always sensed on these visits, and the way he had leaned over the door last month, lips poised for a kiss she had forced herself to deny him. Today she would make up for it. She had come through a storm, and she was invigorated. She was ready. 

Fingers trembling with anticipation, she slid back the lock, and pushed open the top half of the Dutch door. “Hi,” she said softly, but felt instantly foolish when she realized no one was there. 

Before she could even consider what might have happened, her eyes were drawn down to the doormat. There sat the usual delivery: food and treats, books and newspapers, all wrapped together in a neat bundle. Squinting out into the clearing, at first she saw no one, but then the figure of Rigel was visible for a brief second before his shadowy outline was swallowed by trees. 

Through the mud ran Sorcha, splashing her way along the carefully marked trail, stumbling over roots and sliding on wet leaves, but somehow keeping her balance. She didn’t stop until she reached the lake’s edge. 

“Rigel!” she called out desperately. “Wait!” But she was far too late. The skiff was coasting purposefully toward the mainland, and its sweet, wonderful captain spared not a single glance behind him. 

Sorcha stood for some moments, gazing in disbelief over the water. Finally, the heat of the sun felt so oppressively warm that she could stand it no longer, and she turned and trudged all the way home. 

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