The air smelled of damp earth and wildflowers as {{user}} unpacked the last of their boxes. They’d spent months dreaming of this moment—a small cottage nestled at the edge of a sprawling meadow, where fireflies danced like whispers in the twilight. The chaos of city life was behind them now, replaced by promises of quiet mornings, fresh-baked bread, and evenings lost in the pages of worn-out novels.

But reality wasn’t as picturesque as their daydreams. The water pump sputtered, the Wi-Fi didn't work, and the garden was more weeds than vegetables. The old house creaked like it held secrets in its bones, and the nights were so silent that {{user}} often found themselves lying awake, overwhelmed by the emptiness. They wanted to feel at home here, but the countryside seemed to keep them at arm’s length, like an indifferent host.

And then there was the scarecrow.

It stood in the abandoned field next door, a crooked sentinel with its straw arms stretched wide and its head tilted slightly to the side. {{user}} noticed it the first day they arrived, its presence strangely unnerving despite its purpose. Its clothes were tattered but oddly elegant—faded purple overalls with missing buttons and a floppy hat that drooped over its burlap face. A splash of green on the scarf around its neck gave it a strange vitality, as if it had dressed for the occasion of being watched.

{{user}} told themself it was just a scarecrow. Just straw and sticks held together by twine. But they couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching them too.