The Cottage

The winter air pierces my skin and chills my very soul. I pull my collar closer to my neck as I tuck my chin into my body. The walk has been long and lonely, and I am desperate for companionship.

It has been too long since I heard another's voice. The warm touch was foreign to me. The moon lights the path ahead, guiding me home.

My breath is visible and warm, so I imprison it with my hands. It will do for now.

How did I get here? What events brought me to this stage of my life? I cannot answer that which I do not know.

Snow that fell yesterday now lies on the road, as if God himself shook powdered sugar on the road. Every now and then the sound of crunching leaves rings in my ears.

Up ahead I see smoke. A fire? A chimney. A small cottage here in the woods. I change my bearings and walk in its direction.

The cottage looked abandoned except for the chimney and a strange glow coming from inside.

A carriage sits rotting outside, and there are no signs of automobiles.

The cottage door, made of mahogany, looked out of place amidst the shoddy cabin. A bright brass knob beckoned me inside.

I take my hands from my warm pockets and grasp the doorknob, which was surprisingly warm. i open the door slowly, allowing anyone inside to become aware of my presence.

Inside the cottage was beautiful- a feast was set on the table, and a roaring fire burned in the fireplace. it was as if I were expected.

There is a note on the table that reads:
"Hello weary traveler. Enjoy the fire and feast. Get your rest for your journey is long. When you leave, please prepare it for the next."

A bed was visible in the corner. A red quilt lay atop in large mattress.

What is this place? It seems so nice. I begin to examine the food and begin eating.

The food is hot and satisfying. I have had better, but now, at this moment, nothing could be. I eat my fill and place myself in front of the fire.

How many travelers come through here? There is a shelf of books in my view. I look at them to find mostly old fiction: Hemingway, Fitzgerald. There was an old C.S. Lewis book, the title had been rubbed off. I pick it up and begin to read.

I awake several hours later. Apparantly I fell asleep reading. I look outside and see the sun.

I remember the note and that I should tidy up. I look at the table where I ate, and to my surprise, all the food I ate was back on the table, as if I was never there.

My journey ahead is still long, so I make my leave. As I walk I think about that magical cottage, and I hope I find it again.