I thought magic would be louder.
I waited for magic to arrive. Then I noticed the tea was warm, the chair was waiting, and the page was open and waiting.
That may be the first honest thing I can say.
By the time I reached Rowan Hollow, I was tired in a way sleep could not touch. Not the kind of tired that comes from walking too far or carrying too much in your arms.
This was a deeper tired.
The kind that comes from carrying too much inside.
I had been looking for signs for so long that I had begun to resent the looking.
Every bird at the window. Every number on a clock. Every unusual stone in the path. Every song that came on at the exact right moment. Every feather on the ground. The random coin on the floor.
I used to love those things.
I used to feel the world leaning close when they happened, as if some hidden part of life had lifted its head and looked back at me.
But lately, even wonder had begun to feel like work.
I was tired of trying to make meaning. Tired of hoping something would answer. Tired of being the one who noticed.
So when I found the room inside the Cottage at Rowan Hollow, I wanted it to prove something to me.
I did not say that out loud. I simply stood in the doorway and waited. Watched.
The room was small.
A wooden chair sat near the window, turned slightly toward away from the window. There was a round table beside it, not fancy, not polished to impress anyone. A cup of tea rested there, steam rising in transparent ribbons.
A journal lay open in front of the cup.
The page was blank.
For a moment, I felt almost annoyed.
That was all?
A chair. A cup. A blank page.
I had come all this way, through the trees and the strange hush of Rowan Hollow, and that was it? Part of me had expected more.
A message, maybe. A candle flaring to life. A bird tapping three times at the glass. A sentence appearing in ink across the page.
Something unmistakable. Something that would save me the trouble of believing.
But nothing moved except the steam.
The room did not glow. The walls did not whisper. No great revelation rose from the floorboards.
I stood there with my hand still resting on the doorframe, and disappointment came up in me so sharply I almost turned away.
Of course, I thought.
Even here. Even here, nothing happens.
Then the tea shifted slightly in the cup, as if someone had adjusted the cup.
I looked at it again.
- It's a quiet way to notice your life again.
- Things don't arrive all at once.
- Some pages take time.