The Little Cottage
by Caitlin Doyle
On those very evenings, when the gales swirled about the trees and branches tapped the windows to come inside, the little cottage felt warm and secure. He was needed by the spindly branches so that they could make their scratchy-scratchy sound against his glass panes. Without him, they would simply wade through the thick storm air or tangle with one another. His windows gave them a satisfying sound and purpose. The fierce winds found their way in between the cracked stones for a brief respite of warmth within his walls, before whistling contentedly out the cracks in the other side and on with their journey through the forest. The trees ensured that they sheltered him from above and gave him beauty, by covering him with their dappled light. The little cottage stood, contented and protected, within this world of the forest. He had once known the sounds of those strange creatures, people, but they always came and went and never simply sat and listened. They were far too busy to satisfy themselves with the creaking of the branches, the snoozy sparkle of the stars. Always on the go, the people had eventually gone - and he had not seen them again. Sometimes the little cottage missed the warmth and crackle of the fires that they made at his hearth, and sometimes he even missed the strange bubbling laughter that rang out when they were together. But he had lived without these creatures for such a long time, that these memories were fading. Sometimes, on a warm, languid night, he thought he heard that laughter – but it was only the mimicking sound of the playing branches. But for the little cottage, that was enough.