The Wishing Well

Morning Dew

1245

London, England

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Yesterday night, there was a gentle rainstorm. Because of that, the sound of people was almost non-existent as almost everybody gone indoors to hide from the rain.

It was reassuring to hear the rain make soft pit-pat sounds as it hit the ground and the windows clattered from the water. Then, the small droplets of water will race each other down the glass, falling upon a leaf, then slowly slither down and fall off the leaf into the soil of the plant.

Rain was such a mysterious thing; water that fall from the sky like tears of a crying creature. It was a gift yet a curse. It brought good luck to the crops during a good year, but also bad luck if it rained too much.

My sisters and Mother despised the rain. However, I quite enjoy it. It feels good standing in the rain, feeling the water wash what seems like every bit of you. So slowly that it feels like your mistakes will be gone, your sins will be gone, just like your existence and everything that is left behind.

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By the morning, the rain had stopped. The rain never left completely yet. There is a strong scent of the rain still left behind, the smell of dampness and leaves.

I was down in the living room with my sister, Ivy. For days, suitors flooded our house in hopes of Ivy's hand in marriage. And everyday, I had to prepare tea and biscuits for the guests, then sweep the living room, and wash Ivy's dresses. Day after day, it's the same routine until Ivy gets engaged or I become of age.

The living room itself is quite quaint, but cozy. There is a fireplace at the end of the living room with a dancing, never-ending flame that burns every single day. It is orange and it flickers with yellow from time to time. The colors will sway back and forth, up and down as the whole living room warms up from the fire. Slowly, the fire will die out and Mother would toss some more firewood into the fireplace. The flames will hungrily consume the wood, growing bigger and bigger. The fire will never stop burning, never stop jumping up and down until the winter of 1245 ends.

There's a coffee table in front of the fireplace. The coffee table is long and made of the same material as the floor. It aligns with the fireplace, being as long as the fireplace is. There's an empty, blue vase in the middle, accompanied by a tea set.

I grab the teapot, which is white and engraved with golden swirls, and top it over towards another teacup. Steamy earl grey tea comes rushing out into the teacup, liquid rushing downwards.

As I began to pour another cup of tea, there was a knock on the door. The knock was loud and rough. Another knock rings through the house and I gently set the teapot down onto the tea tray. I was not planning on breaking another tea set.

"Roxanne, do you hear the knock on the door?" Ivy sighed impatiently. She sat on the white couch across from the coffee table. The couch was a bit shorter than the table itself. It was two feet apart from the table and it was center, facing the fireplace. There's two, fluffy pillows at either ends of the couch.

Ivy sat in the middle of the couch. She has a long, white dress, drowned in laces and little silk butterfly knots. It is sleeveless and the top has a rim of shining, fake golden outline. It was tame on the top, but once you reach the bottom half of the dress, starting around the stomach, it explodes outwards. It was layers and layers of delicate fabric, layer upon layer. In the back of the dress which one cannot see now, was a neat crossing of a silky string. In the morning, after I watered the flowers, I had to help Ivy into her dress. Afterward, I had braided her golden locks into a long French braid.