garments. Despite this, upon completion of her creations, she tossed them aside, using them as fuel for her hearth. Like the inside of her house, the exterior was closely manicured as well. The lawn was thriving and uniformly cut, and deliberately shaped bushes surrounded the house’s walls. The bushes, which she harvested herself, provided the cotton that she sewed with. The front door, a deep shade of pumpkin, was bright and inviting. Each window was clear, revealing the complementary interior. Everything was perfect, and everything was intentional. Mrs. Margrove did all of the grooming herself in hopes of putting on a good appearance. Every day, she would spend time trimming bushes, tidying the house, and mowing the lawn out towards the forest that encircled her house. The edge of the lawn formed the demarcation between the order inside and the chaos outside. Beyond the orbit of Mrs. Margrove’s e orts, trees were strewn without a pattern, interspersed amongst bushes of varying height, width, and shape. From those who had been through it, the forest was said to make you feel alone; there was no faint inkling that you were being followed or stalked, just pure, pervasive, chilling loneliness. Surrounded by this entropic wilderness, it was this exact sensation that Russell Mann experienced as he stumbled out of the forest and onto the homogenous lawn. A slender man in his early twenties of about six feet, he was dressed in rugged outdoor clothing and wearing a small satchel that was de ated due to its partial emptiness. The chills from being lost and alone soon faded to confusion and then broke to relief, washing over him like a cool breeze. The house was an island in an ocean of loss, a lighthouse of hope. It seemed to reach out to him, grasp him in a sunny embrace, and beckon him to nd solace inside its walls. He started towards the front door and then noticed a face staring out at him between the bars of one of the front windows. It was the face of an elderly woman, wrinkled with the burden of life. The edges of her mouth grimaced into a smile, and her eyes sparkled wide with the light of years of troubling wisdom. It was the type of expression that, just like the house, invited him in, welcomed him into its midst, and comforted him with the knowledge that answers were forthcoming. It o ered a glimpse, an insinuation that its owner could expunge the tumult that had de ned his last 24 hours.
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He walked to the front door, but before he could knock, the door swung open, and he found himself eye to eye with the woman he had seen in the window. “You’re lost. Please, come in,” she said, opening the door wider so that he could step through. “Thank you, ma’am.” he replied exuberantly as he stepped inside. “I’m Russell.” She shut the door behind him. “Call me Mrs. Margrove. You must be famished,” she responded slowly. “There is plenty here, allow me to prepare you a meal.” “Oh, no need to go to all the trouble, ma’am. I’m not much hungry for anything. I suppose I’m just stopping by.” “But surely you must need to eat. We all do,” she insisted, unwavering in her demeanor. “No really, I’m quite ne. I appreciate your generosity, though,” he responded, not wanting to impose.
