Outside, the air shimmered with warmth, carrying the scent of lavender and marigold as bees drifted like thoughts between blooms.
Etta stood in the doorway, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug. The steam curled up and vanished into the orange-honey light. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in three days, and she hadn’t meant to stretch the silence that long. But once the quiet settled in, it became harder to disturb.
The world had grown so noisy before she left. Phones. Sirens. Apologies that sounded like ads. So she drove until the signal dropped, then parked and walked the rest of the way up the dirt trail that had nearly disappeared under time and moss.
She bought the cottage from a woman who left nothing behind but a note in the mailbox: Keep the flowers alive. They’re stubborn, but they listen.
Outside, the petals turned as the sun dipped behind the hills, shadows lengthening like slow exhalations across the stone path.
Each morning, Etta weeded the garden, whispered to the lavender, and warned the marigolds not to get too proud. She swore they responded, the way cats do—indifferent but not unaware.
This evening, though, something felt different. Maybe it was the breeze, cooler than it had been in weeks. Or maybe it was the way the birds had gone quiet all at once.
She stepped barefoot onto the stones, feeling their warmth seep into her skin. Her breath slowed. She could smell the rain before it arrived—earthy, electric.
Then she saw it.
A single black feather, drifting down from a sky too empty for birds. It landed near the foxglove, unnoticed by the bees. She bent to pick it up and felt a prick on her palm, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire.
The wind shifted.
Behind her, the cottage light flickered.
“Not now,” she whispered, holding the feather tight.
Outside, the garden stilled, every leaf and petal frozen in half-motion. Even the bees hovered, motionless mid-air, as if time itself had paused to inhale.
Etta closed her eyes. She hadn’t wanted this to find her. Not here. Not after everything.
But the feather pulsed in her hand, and she knew: something had crossed through. A boundary breached.
She turned slowly.
The cottage door creaked open, though she hadn’t touched it.
A figure stood just inside the threshold—tall, robed, faceless, the scent of wet stone trailing behind it. No words came. None were needed.
“I’m not ready,” she said quietly.
The figure didn’t move. It never did.
She looked down at the feather, now glowing faintly in the deepening dusk. A key, a trigger, a reminder.
“I’ll come,” she said. “But let me say goodbye.”
The figure nodded once.
Outside, the garden began to stir again. Bees resumed their dance. The wind softened. The sun, reluctant but patient, kissed the last of the hilltops before vanishing.
She walked the path one final time, touching every flower, whispering names only she had given them. Then, without looking back, she stepped inside.
And the door closed.
Author’s Note:
This story and its accompanying animation were created for Esther Clinton’s Weekly Writing Prompt. It’s been a while since I dipped back into video work—long enough that I definitely felt a bit rusty. But the moment I saw the prompt, something sparked. The scene that unfolded—a quiet cottage, a garden blooming at golden hour, something strange just beneath the peace—felt like the perfect blend of stillness and mystery.
Reconnecting words with visuals reminded me why I love storytelling in this form. Sometimes it takes a gentle nudge to get the creative gears turning again. I’m grateful for that nudge, and for the space to explore this quiet, eerie little moment in the hills.
Thank you for watching, reading, or simply letting the garden settle in your imagination.
Memoirs of Madness 