The rain splashes against the roof, but the rain can't get to the small boy curled up in his armchair. He sits wrapped up in any number of blankets, simply listening to the rain, and watching it stream down his window in comforting rivulets.
The air smells pleasant, a mix of petrichor and freshly harvested grain. The sound of the animals outside is welcoming. Faintly clucking chickens, the splash of duck's feet. The radio plays static, broken by an occasional burst of voice.
A peppy newscaster, talking to no one in particular. The boy sends him silent appreciation, as it feels much less lonely that way. A tiny spider climbs up the wall, but he doesn't mind, the spider just wants to be warm too.
A mouse rustles in the walls, scratching against the wood. The boy tapped on the wall to quiet the mice. The little wood stove in the corner crackles, a teapot up on top of it.
The house is neatly decorated, though cluttered. Books litter the shelves that line the walls. Adventurous fantasy books, books about animals, leatherbound notebooks that hold small bits people's lives, thick hardcovers with wildflowers pressed between the pages. Knick knacks sit beside them, each one of them containing a different memory.
On the table beside the front door is a stack of envelopes, each one of them opened very gently, so as not to break the wax seals that closed them. Refolded inside are the letters. Pages of neatly written handwriting, detailing stories and jokes and small "I love you's".
Tiny drawings fill the margins, little hearts scrawled in a hurry. A tiny frog with a smile that doesn't quite fit on its face. Little flowers around the signatures. One of the envelopes has a list of songs the sender thought were pretty. Another has a bag of citrus-smelling tea in the bottom of it, just beside the letter, quietly releasing the pleasant scent of orange blossoms into the paper.
The boy closes his book, relishing the tiny thump sound it makes when it shuts. He wiggles deeper into his blankets, feeling his eyelids getting heavier with each raindrop. He closes his eyes, and as the sounds of farm begin to fade into nothing his has a single thought.
"All is right in the world."
YOU ARE READING
Fresh Baked Bread (cottagecore)
General FictionThis will probably be a collection of meaningless stories, or just cute scenes that sound pleasing. I write these in my free time as a coping mechanism for stress, and I hope they can bring others a little bit of happiness too.
