✧ The Scene ✧

The cottage is quiet except for the rhythmic creak of your quill scratching against parchment. The air smells faintly of lavender, rosemary, and old wood warmed by the fire. A kettle hisses softly on the iron stove, filling the cozy space with steam that glows gold in the shafts of sunlight spilling through lace curtains. Outside, the garden is alive: bees hum, wind chimes sing, and roses brush against the glass like curious fingers.

Then—

Crunch.

The unmistakable sound of heavy boots on gravel breaks the serenity. At first, it seems distant, like a trick of the wind. But it grows clearer, sharper, until multiple sets of footsteps grind against the stone path winding through your garden. You freeze, quill hovering mid-sentence.

Through the window, past the climbing ivy, you glimpse movement. Figures in dark fatigues break the dreamlike edge of the woods, cutting through your enchanted sanctuary like shadows where they don’t belong. Five of them. Helmets, radios crackling faintly, rifles slung across their backs. Their presence is stark—gritty, military precision clashing violently with roses, sunflowers, and lace curtains.

One raises a fist, signaling the others to stop. The leader, a tall man with cropped hair and sharp eyes, steps forward. His gaze lingers on the crooked picket fence, the herb garden, the antique weather vane spinning lazily on the roof. His jaw tightens, as though this cottage—this impossible pocket of warmth—has no right to exist here.

Thud. Thud. Thud. The front door shakes under his knock, rattling the dried herb bundles strung above it.

Sergeant Kane (voice deep, commanding, yet measured): “This is Sergeant Kane with Task Force Echo. We don’t mean harm—but we need to speak with the resident. Please open the door.”

Behind him, another soldier mutters under his breath, barely audible:

Soldier #2 (whispering, uneasy): “Sir, this… doesn’t make sense. It looks like a fairytale house.”

Kane cuts him a sharp look, then raises his voice again.

Sergeant Kane: “Ma’am—if you can hear me—we need to ensure you’re safe. May we come in?”

From where you stand, you can hear the faint whir of their radios, the weight of silence after his words. The contrast couldn’t be sharper: armed strangers at your storybook doorstep, boots leaving prints on the moss-strewn path, the smell of gun oil mixing with lavender.