Like a pot kept warm on the back burner for someone who might still come home.
Heartforce
Eileen rises slowly. The stone beneath her gives a little, as though reluctant to let her go. She places one hand on the floor for balance and exhales through her nose, a breath long and sure, like a stitch drawn through thick cloth. Her legs feel steady and her joints offer no complaint. The wear in her bones is still there, but it waits its turn. For this particular moment does not belong to pain.
She turns toward the way she came, expecting to find the same path waiting for her. Instead, a new passage greets her. It curves upward and forward. There is no flame to light it, but it is not dark. The walls surrounding the passage have changed. They are no longer rough or formal, but smooth and quiet, like stone that has stopped trying to impress anyone. There is a calmness in their shape, a familiarity that reminds her of the entrance of the dungeon, the well, that she uses to go back and forth.
She does not question it though, instead she accepts it without hesitation and walks forward without speaking. For she has lived long enough to recognize the shape of an invitation wearing the costume of coincidence.
The incline is gentle, hardly worth noticing. She continues upward with ease, though her body remembers the motion of climbing. The air begins to shift further here and it carries less of the Dungeon’s mechanical hush and more of something older, something closer to the surface. There is the scent of warm earth and fallen leaves, of clean dirt that has not yet been disturbed. A breeze too gathers faintly as if considering the idea of movement.
Ahead, single vine curls down from the wall ahead, thin, green and completely at peace with itself. It grows directly from the stone, not bursting through but settled within it. It does not push anything for it simply belongs and she passes her fingers along its edge. It smells of parsley and turnips, fresh and earthy.
Then she reaches the top.
The stone beneath her becomes soil. Her boots meeting fresh ground. To her left, a low garden wall leans gently inward, kept upright more by familiarity than structure. To her right, the rosemary bushes have grown larger, fuller than before, dense with fragrance. A cracked pot resting among their roots.
And before her stands the cottage. Her cottage.
She turns to look behind her and sees that the well has in fact moved a third time. It is no longer where it once was, but now sits comfortably in her yard, exactly where she had planned to have her sons dig a root cellar for her next spring. It feels deliberate, as though the well had not just followed her but choose to join her here.
So he looks at the well for a long time. The path behind her has vanished, or perhaps it never existed beyond the moment it was needed. Only the well remains, steady and unchanged, its stones worn in the way of things that have never hurried and never left. It carries the kind of age that does not count itself in years, but in the long patience of waiting.
She speaks to it then as though it has always been part of her garden. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right dear?” Her voice does not seek an answer. It does not demand or coax, it simply offers itself to the quiet, the way a familiar light waits on the kitchen table long after everyone has gone to bed.
Her hand rests at her side. She flexes her fingers once, then turns back towards the cottage. The grass bends beneath her feet and does not rush to rise again. The cottage stands ahead, unchanged in its outline but touched by a stillness that feels expectant. Smoke curls softly from the chimney, not in alarm, but with the calm persistence of something that has never stopped being present.
Behind her, footsteps arrive in an uneven rhythm. They do not hurry, but they carry the intent of a child trying to be careful. Ollan appears around her side, arms filled with sticks, cheeks pink from the cold and from the quiet excitement that lives in the moments after something strange and important has happened. He does not announce himself, because he knows she already heard him coming.
“It showed up this morning,” he says, as though continuing a conversation that began while she was away. “Maybe an hour or two after you were left.”
She lets him speak and he shifts his grip on the sticks. “Audry says, it came out of the hill like a hiccup.”
Eileen looks down at him, her eyes are gentle, her mouth not quite smiling. “And what do you say?”
He squints toward the well, considering. His voice carries a thought still unfolding. “I think it was always meant to be here, just like us. But it only just remembered why today.”
From the edge of the path, Audry approaches. Her scarf drags behind her, far too long and oversized to be reasonable, trailing in the grass like the end of a small parade. In one hand she holds a stick that she clearly believes to be something grander. She points toward the well with theatrical certainty.
“It makes the same sound William does when he gets up in the morning,” she declares.
Audry grins as if she has delivered a line like a hero from a story. The pride on her face blooming without hesitation. Ollan lets out a bright burst of laughter that scatters the sticks from his arms. They tumble to the ground in an uneven heap, but he does not seem to mind. Eileen presses her lips together to keep her smile from taking over her whole face. She watches them both for a moment longer, letting their delight fill the space between them.
Then she speaks, softly, not in reply to the joke but in response to something quieter and deeper. “Both of you are much too good to me.”
The cottage door opens just ahead of them. It does not swing wide and it does not creak. It moves with the calm intention of something that has waited a long time and knows exactly when to make itself known. The opening is smooth, not for show but for welcome, as if the house has listened and understands that now is the right time.
Eileen steps inside without pause. The air within greets her with the scent of thyme and something recently baked that has already gone cold. There is a warmth that lives not in temperature but in the memory of bodies at rest, of cups left half full and chairs pushed back just slightly from the table. It is a space that remembers how to hold people without demanding anything from them.
The children follow behind her, their steps soft against the floor. They no longer speak, but the remains of their laughter follow them like the last curl of smoke from a candle just blown out. The door does not close right away. It lingers, half open, as though reluctant to end the moment too quickly.
The cottage wears the evening the way old quilts wear sleep, patches of light settling where ever they can. Shadows gathering in the remaining corners not unwelcome, just in an effort to find space for themselves. The scent of something smoky and sweet lingers near the table, even though no bread has been toasted and no dinner laid out.
Eileen lets her eyes wander across the room. She is not looking for anything in particular and she simply lets the shape of the space remind her of what time it is.
To her right, one of the fluffy tumblers has claimed her boot as a nest which has been knocked on it side. Its lean body spilling out, more fluff than form, clearly convinced of its invisibility with the other bits of it body beneath the edge of the nearby rug. Eileen steps past it without comment.
She moves into the kitchen and rests a hand on the edge of the counter. The surface is cool beneath her fingers, familiar in the way well used things remember their purpose. She sets her basket down and begins to roll up her sleeves. Each motion carrying the ease of someone who has spent a lifetime learning that steadiness is more useful than speed. The kettle on the stove hums with a sound that rises from nowhere. The stove has not been lit, but the kettle sings as if it has always known this is the moment when tea should be made.
Ollan picks up a broom from its resting place near the door. He begins to sweep with careful strokes, not perfect but determined. Across the room, one of the fluffy tumblers finds a second broom, smaller and clearly repurposed, and begins to imitate him. Its movements are far less effective, more dust clinging to its fur than leaving the floor, but it continues undeterred. Neither of them speaks though, for the essence of the shared task is enough.
Eileen hums softly to herself, the tune gentle and unhurried. She lifts a bundle of herbs and begins to hang them near the window, each one chosen not just for use but for the comfort they bring. The sun touches the windowsill, warm enough to release the scent of the leaves as she works. Rosemary, sage, and a little lavender find their place along the wire, hung with the kind of quiet care usually reserved for sacred things.
Ollan continues sweeping, his brow furrowed slightly, the line of his shoulders steady. The tumbler beside him watches closely and adjusts its grip again and again, as though waiting for something important to happen. As if just finding the right angle to hold the broom is enough. Its dust trials forming unevenly across the stone, but neither of them seem concerned in the least.
Then from beneath the table in the kitchen, the smallest of the fluffy tumblers emerges. It drags a wooden spoon that is nearly as long as its entire body. Its movements are slow and deliberate, pausing often to adjust its hold or catch its breath. It is unclear where it intends to take the spoon, but its commitment is evident in every step. Eileen watches without interrupting, her eyes soft and full of quiet affection.
“They are making it into a game,” she says gently making sure her voice reaches Ollan's ears without breaking the rhythm, “That is one of the best ways to learn anything worth keeping.”
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Ollan does not reply right away, but the smile that spreads across his face is wide and unguarded and the fluffy tumbler beside him lets out a soft puff of air, not quite frustration and not quite pride. It then adjusts its grip once more and sweeps a little dust towards the hearth. It then sits back with an expression that seems entirely pleased with itself.
“They are not just copying anymore,” Ollan says after a moment. His voice is thoughtful, not surprised. “They are really watching and choosing what they want to do. Even when it is hard or they don’t know how to do it right.”
Eileen nods and reaches for another bundle of sage. Her movements remain slow and certain. “They are trusted with learning,” she says. “In whatever way they choose.”
Ollan puts his broom away and then brings a folded towel to the kitchen handing it to the smallest fluffy tumbler just as it arrives beside him, still dragging the long spoon behind it. The creature accepts the towel with a triumphant squeak and wraps it around its head like a crown. It spins once in place, then tumbles into a delighted heap, limbs and fluff splayed in all directions.
Eileen turns toward the stove as the kettle begins to whistle. The sound is not sharp or urgent. It rises as if from memory, shaped more by ritual than by heat. She lifts the kettle and pours the water into three mugs already waiting on the counter. There is no need to ask who wants tea. She knows the answer without needing to be told.
Ollan takes his mug in both hands and holds it close, fingers wrapped around the ceramic like it might share something with him if held gently enough. Across the table, Eileen lifts her own mug and sips without rush. The tea is not remarkable, but it is steady, and today that is more than enough.
The tumbler with the broom climbs into a chair with great ceremony. It lifts its mug carefully and manages a small sip without spilling, its eyes round with the effort of doing something properly. It holds the cup awkwardly, both paws involved, and tilts it just enough to slosh a little, but not enough to fail. Then, all at once, it sets the mug down and darts off again, a blur of fluff and intent, rushing toward the hearth where the others have begun to settle in a soft pile of rising breath.
The room quiets again. Not from absence, but from fullness. The silence that remains is the kind that follows something good and small and whole. The hearth glows low and orange, not from firewood but from contentment. Eileen leans back slightly in her chair, her mug balanced in one hand, her other resting on the table like she is holding space for a thought not yet spoken.
“Do you think they dream?” Ollan asks. The question arrives softly, not pushed forward but released, as though it has been waiting for the right moment to be heard. He does not look up as he says it. He watches the last swirl of steam rise from his tea and fade into the light above the table
Eileen lets the question rest in the room without rushing to meet it. She does not speak immediately. Instead, she reaches toward the tin in the center of the table and selects a cracker. She brings it to her mouth and chews slowly, letting the crisp texture and the salt fill the silence without disturbing it. When she places the remainder back on the tin’s lid, her voice follows naturally, soft and certain.
“If they did not before,” she says, “they might now.”
The fire responds with a quiet sound that does not belong to burning wood or flame. It is something older and deeper, the kind of sound a room makes when it agrees without needing words. It settles into the stones and seems to approve, a sigh that warms without heat.
Eileen turns to look at Ollan, not with urgency but with the kind of presence that invites without expectation. “What do you dream of?” she asks.
Ollan blinks surprised, but he does not answer right away. His fingers press more firmly around his mug as he thinks. For the napkin in his lap is already wrinkled from being folded and unfolded too many times. Still he looks down at it and creases another corner. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than before, and each word carries more weight than it seems to know how to hold.
“I dream about growing things,” he says.
He pauses there, as if measuring the shape of that thought, unsure whether it is enough. Then, sensing it needs more space to stand on its own, he continues.
“Not the kind with magic or glowing colors or strange names,” he says. “Just real things. Beans and squash. Carrots and bananas. Especially bananas. I could probably grow banana bread too!”
Eileen nods approvingly but does not speak. Her attention does not waver, and she gives him room to continue unfolding the idea. She knows better than to interrupt a child's dream that’s still taking shape.
Still Ollan glances at her, uncertain whether she will laugh or correct him. But her face remains calm and attentive in the perfectly grandmother way. The warmth in her eyes does not shift and he feel encouraged by her silence, “I like the idea that you can put something into the ground and know where it is,” he says. “That it stays there and does what it’s meant to do. You can come back the next day and it hasn’t changed into something else or wandered off or turned into a riddle or a ritual.”
He shrugs once, not sharply but with a kind of gentle finality. “And when you pull it up and cook it or share it with your friends. That’s another part I like. That everyone gets to have some.”
Eileen reaches across the table and places her hand gently over his. The contact is brief but meaningful. When she draws her hand away, the comfort of it remains in the space between them.
“You can make any dream into a reality dear Ollan.” she says.
Ollan looks down at the napkin again and folds another corner, more slowly this time. “It’s not very heroic,” he says, and his voice is careful, like he is testing how the words sound in the air before letting them settle. There is no complaint in the way he says it, only a quiet uncertainty, the kind that comes when something has not yet been measured by anyone else.
“No,” Eileen replies, her tone calm and grounded, “but it’s better.”
From the hearth, a soft breath of sound rises. It is not from any creature in the pile of fluff, nor is it from the logs that lie unburned in the grate. It is the sound of the room itself making space for what has just been spoken. One of the tumblers shifts slightly, its small limbs stretching in a lazy sprawl before it nestles back into the warmth beside the others. The light in the room has begun to soften. Morning has slipped past its peak, and now midday leans gently into the walls and floor, content to rest where it is needed.
Ollan lifts his head again and looks toward Eileen. His expression holds something cautious, but not afraid. “Do you think the seeds will accept me?” he asks.
His question is not filled with doubt about his own worth. It does not carry the usual weight of a voice wondering whether it is good enough. It carries instead a quieter hope, one rooted in whether the ground itself will understand what he is offering it.
Eileen takes in the room, the chairs that do not match, the mistmatched folded towels stacked carefully near the stove, the pile of creatures dozing softly beside the hearth. Her gaze lingers on each thing as though seeing it again for the first time. The house not waiting for her to answer, for it already holds the truth in its walls.
She returns her eyes to Ollan and lets the pause stretch just long enough to feel real. “I think you should try anyway,” she says. “Some things do not need to give permission to become true. All they really need is someone to make room for them to grow.”
Ollan does not respond right away. He sits with the words, turning them over the way one might press a seed into warm soil and wait to see if the ground accepts it. The nod he gives is slow and thoughtful, not a gesture of agreement but of planting. He is not signaling belief. He is choosing to carry it with him and see what it becomes.
The room does not move to fill the silence that follows. It stretches around it, slowly and with satisfaction, like a cat uncurling in sunlight. The air remains full, not with noise but with something warm and waiting. Eileen lifts her mug and takes another sip of tea. Her fingers are loose around the handle, and her gaze drifts toward the window where the flowers press lightly against the pane. The breeze outside is soft enough to move only what chooses to be moved. Dust motes float in the air around her, catching the light for a moment, then slipping out of sight.
Above them, the beams of the ceiling hold steady. Something stirs near the highest point, just under the rafters, a sound like a chime before it finds its note. It is thin and quiet, barely enough to name, but it carries the feeling of a lullaby waiting to begin.
Ollan lifts his eyes, he does not speak. The tumbler beside him lifts its head at the same moment, its little ears turning as if they can hear something just beyond the range of language. Pale motes of light begin to form near the ceiling, they drift downward without urgency, round and soft edged, not bright but undeniably present.
The motes then gather in pairs and small clusters, some white and calm, some shifting gently between green and brown. They do not rush and yet they move like thoughts that have decided what shape they want to take. They pass near the table, slipping by the chairs, weaving between spoons and folded towels without touching anything.
Eileen does not turn to look at them. She is kneeling by the hearth now, gathering dried herbs into a small woven pouch. Her back is to the motes as they descend, but the rhythm of her movement remains steady, as if she has already made space for their arrival. She hums again, the melody familiar and soft. It sounds like the kind of song one sings when rain hits old rooftops, or about bread made sweeter by a memory made of those who shared in eating it it.
Like a spiral the motes begin to gather around the shawl that hangs from the back of her chair. The fabric does not move at first, but the colors shift as the light settles into its threads. One by one, the motes begin to sink into the weave. The brown one tucks itself near the middle. The white ones settle near the hem. The green one glows faintly as it rests beside the button Audry stitched into place with careful hands.
The shawl begins to change, not with sudden brilliance but with a warmth that deepens from within. Its color remains the same, but the feeling around it shifts. The glow that gathers in the fibers not bright but restful as if coming to an understanding that does not need to be spoken aloud.
Above the door, something begins to form. The shimmer is slow and delicate, a line of letters appearing as if written in breath against dark glass. The script curls through the air, pale and round at the edges, without haste or urgency.
-8 White Motes: Compassion Demonstrated Through Repetition
-2 Green Motes: Domestic Balance Maintained During Chaos
-1 Brown Mote: Laughter Shared Without Intent
Threadbare Shawl Enchanted
Enhanced by Sacred Button of Spiral Covergence
1) Moderate resistance to Despair, Guilt, and Confusion type effects
2) +2 Willpower
3) +1 Charisma
Passive Effect 'Assumptions Are in the Eye of the Beholder'
Entities interacting with the wearer will perceive them as the version they expect to meet. Whether they see a threat, a healer, a fool, or a saint depends entirely on the assumptions they carry. The shawl does not deceive, it merely reflects. Misunderstandings may grant safety. Misjudgments may grant access.
Ollan reads the words slowly, whispering them to himself. The meaning of the enchantment does not fully reach him, but the shape of it feels right. “Willpower” and “Charisma” were not definitions he understood, but he holds them now as sensations. One feels like the smell of cedar in the sun. The other reminds him of the weight of a blanket placed on your shoulders when no one says why. He does not need more than that.
A single fluffy tumbler approaches the shawl and rests one paw against it. Its eyes are wide, but not afraid. It touches the cloth gently, then leans forward to press its cheek to the place where the sacred button gleams beneath the weave. A second fluffy tumbler joins beside it without hesitation.
Above the door, the final glimmer of text fades from the air. The glow around the shawl recedes until it is no more than the softness of something well loved. The room stills, not in silence but in comfort, and takes a long, full breath.
Localized Emotion Threading Detected
Cultivation Pattern: Emerging