Never, ever

The woods where she lived were quiet woods. Not many birds, not many animals, barely any insects. It was a world of plants. Slow growing plants, rustling quietly in the soft breeze.

She would wake up in the morning and peer out the window of her small cottage to check if there was anything or anybody out there.

Nothing and nobody, not ever, and that was the way she wanted it. She lived in fear of anyone and anything, so the emptiness outside was exactly what she hoped for.

As this is a story, you would expect next the intrigue, for something or someone to appear and shake up this quiet picture. No, it will not appear.

What if the intrigue is this person? Living there, in a small cottage, in a silent wood, with no animals, not anything much, just hiding between plants, spending her days peering outside the window, afraid something might appear to disturb the quiet.

Can you picture this? Can you feel her feelings?

The constant fear, the perpetual tightness of the stomach, jumping scared at every sound, trying to be as quiet as possible, to move without being seen. Judging each action carefully, never, ever doing anything without extreme consideration, and always doubting that it is the right thing to do.

There is this woman that lives quietly in a silent wood, always wanting to see no one and hoping nobody will walk her way.

I wish I knew where she lives, so I can send her a postcard and say:

‘Never, ever, have I, wished more, for you to be here!’