#ghostshire

Morning arrives in layers rather than all at once, easing its way into the house with a kind of quiet persistence that feels particular to the Valley, as though even the sun understands that nothing here benefits from being rushed.

Light comes first, pale and diffused, slipping through the curtains in soft ribbons that stretch across the floorboards and climb the walls in slow increments, gentle enough that waking feels like a choice instead of a demand. Sound follows not long after, the distant rustle of tall grass shifting in the breeze, the low murmur of birds beginning their morning conversations, the faint creak of wood settling into the day.

And beneath it, something else.

Subtle. Irregular. Just enough to catch at your attention without immediately naming itself as wrong.

You stay still for a moment, caught in that fragile space between sleep and awareness, listening more closely now. The house holds its breath in the way old places sometimes do, as if waiting to see whether you will notice.

There it is again.

A soft, hollow sort of sound, like breath moving through something that was never meant to hold it. Not quite a voice, not quite an animal, but close enough to both that your mind keeps trying to decide.

Your eyes open fully.

You lie there a second longer, staring up at the ceiling as the pieces begin to arrange themselves in your thoughts, slow and deliberate, like something being recalled rather than realized.

Haze, standing at the edge of the lanternlight with a fox curled at her feet, her voice carrying that same quiet certainty it always does.

Visitors may arrive before the barn does.

At the time, it had felt like one of her softer warnings, the kind that settled gently into the back of your mind without insisting on urgency, something to be considered later rather than prepared for immediately.

Later, it turns out, has arrived.

Something brushes the outside wall.

Not a knock. Nothing so intentional. Just contact, brief and curious, like a presence testing the shape of the house the way one might trail a hand along an unfamiliar surface.

You sit up, the blankets slipping away as the cool air settles against your skin, grounding you fully in the moment.

Another sound follows, closer this time.

A low, almost questioning bleat.

You exhale slowly, dragging a hand over your face as though that might rearrange the morning into something more manageable.

“Right,” you murmur to no one in particular, the word quiet but resigned in a way that suggests you already know what you are going to find.

The floor is cool beneath your feet as you cross the room, each step measured not out of hesitation but out of a growing awareness that whatever waits outside will not be hurried by your approach. The curtain yields easily when you pull it aside, the fabric whispering against your fingers as the view beyond comes into full, unobstructed clarity.

The field is no longer empty.

For a moment, your mind resists the image, trying to reconcile what you are seeing with what should be there, with the memory of overgrown grass and leaning fence posts and the slow reclamation of land that had been waiting for attention.

Then the resistance fades, replaced by a quiet, almost inevitable understanding.

They move like weather given shape, like fragments of cloud that have decided, for reasons entirely their own, to descend and remain.

Sheep, if the word can still be applied, drift through the tall grass in loose, unhurried patterns, their forms soft at the edges, bodies made of pale mist that curls and shifts with each step as though solidity remains an optional condition. Each one bears a single eye, luminous and steady, glowing faintly from within as they wander, observing without any visible urgency.

One lifts its head.

It looks directly at you.

The eye blinks once, slow and deliberate, with the kind of calm attention that suggests recognition without familiarity.

You find yourself returning the gesture before you can think better of it.

“Of course,” you say under your breath, though there is no real frustration in it, only a kind of tired acceptance that seems to arrive fully formed alongside the sight itself.

Movement flickers above them, drawing your gaze upward.

The rabbits move faster.

Small, bright shapes cut through the air in quick, darting arcs, their wings catching the morning light in translucent flashes that shimmer and fade with each beat. One settles briefly on the sagging line of the old fence, its ears twitching as it surveys the field with keen interest.

Then it lifts again, crossing the distance to the house in a single, effortless motion.

It lands on the roof with a soft, almost inaudible sound.

You let the curtain fall back into place, the fabric muting the scene without truly removing it from your awareness.

There is a brief moment where you consider returning to bed, pulling the blankets back over your shoulders and allowing the morning to unfold without your involvement, trusting the Valley to resolve its own peculiarities in its own time.

Something brushes the front door.

Closer now.

Insistent in its quiet way.

You close your eyes for half a second, then straighten.

“No,” you say, more firmly this time, as though the act of speaking might anchor you into action. “We are dealing with it.”

By the time you reach the front room, the situation has already begun to evolve in ways that confirm your earlier suspicions.

The door remains closed, solid and unchanged in every visible way.

Its authority, however, has clearly become a subject of interpretation.

A sheep has its head halfway through it, the mist of its form thinning just enough to slip past the wood without resistance, its single eye peering into the room with mild, almost polite curiosity. Behind it, another waits with patient stillness, as though aware that its turn will come in due time.

You stop a few paces away, taking in the scene with a level of composure you suspect you will appreciate later.

“…No,” you say, and this time the word carries intent.

The sheep pauses.

It considers you.

Then, with the same quiet determination it showed before, it continues forward.

You step toward it at the same moment a small, determined shape launches itself into the space between you.

Clove lands with surprising force for something her size, her paws planted firmly against the floor, her back arched and her tail fluffed to an impressive degree. The sound she makes is sharp and indignant, far larger than her frame should allow, and entirely effective in capturing the attention of the intruding mistling.

The sheep pauses again.

Clove advances.

There is no fear in the animal’s response, only a gentle recalibration, as though it has encountered a new variable that requires adjustment. It eases backward, its form slipping once more through the door with that same soft, fog-like motion.

Clove follows with unwavering focus, circling once the sheep is outside, guiding it with small, precise movements that suggest instinct awakening into purpose.

You watch, arms slowly folding across your chest as the situation resolves itself, at least temporarily.

“Well,” you say, a touch of wonder slipping into your voice despite yourself. “That helps.”

Behind the first sheep, the second shifts forward, curiosity clearly undiminished.

Clove turns.

The message is immediate and unmistakable.

There will be order.

You’re very close already—this just needs more breath and less stop-start emphasis. I’ll smooth and extend the ending section so it flows more naturally and reads less “constructed” and more lived-in.

The delegation takes its time in a way that feels deliberate rather than hesitant, as though whatever process led them here had already been discussed and agreed upon somewhere out of sight, somewhere beneath the floorboards or in the quiet spaces between things where small creatures conduct serious business.

They do not scatter when they emerge from beneath the porch, and there is none of the scrambling urgency you might expect, no jostling for position or chaotic overlap of movement, but instead a slow, coordinated arrangement as they form themselves into lines along the worn wooden boards, each rat settling into place with an ease that suggests familiarity with this kind of gathering.

At the center, the larger one steps forward, her movements unhurried, her posture composed in a way that immediately sets her apart.

You recognize her more from Copia’s subtle shift beside you than anything else, from the way his attention sharpens just slightly, as though acknowledging her presence carries its own weight.

Mozzarella, apparently.

She stops just short of the doorway, right at the place where the air still holds that faint sense of boundary, and lifts her head toward you.

There is no sound.

And yet the feeling of being addressed lands clearly enough that you straighten without quite meaning to, suddenly aware of your position in the doorway, of the fact that you are standing there as something more than just a bystander to whatever this has become.

Behind her, another rat pushes forward with visible determination, dragging what looks like a scrap of paper that seems far too large for her, though she handles it with a kind of practiced efficiency that suggests this, too, is not a new occurrence.

She smooths it flat against the wood with both paws, pressing it down carefully before lowering her head to the threshold itself, her nose tracing along the edge of the doorway where Copia’s earlier work left that faint, nearly invisible shimmer.

Her whiskers twitch as she moves, pausing at certain points as though she is reading something written into the grain of the wood, something that exists more in texture and scent than in anything you could perceive directly.

After a moment, she lifts one paw and begins scratching at the paper, slow, deliberate marks that feel far too intentional to be random.

She glances up briefly.

Not quite at you.

Through you.

The sensation of being evaluated settles in a way that is deeply uncomfortable in its quiet thoroughness.

“…I don’t like what they're up to,” you murmur under your breath.

Beside you, Copia makes a soft sound that could be agreement, though his attention remains steady on the group.

From somewhere behind the front row, a third rat pushes her way forward with far less patience, her movements sharper, her posture carrying a kind of pointed irritation that makes her presence immediately known.

She climbs partway up the step and stops just short of the boundary, her tail snapping once against the wood as she surveys the porch with open disapproval, as though something here has already failed to meet her expectations.

Pesto, if you had to guess.

She does not look at you.

Instead, she turns her attention toward the open window and lifts one paw, pointing with a level of clarity that feels almost exaggerated.

You follow the gesture automatically.

A winged rabbit is perched inside, nestled comfortably in what used to be your tea tin, its small body perfectly at ease as it surveys its surroundings with bright, untroubled interest.

You look back at the rat.

She looks at you.

Then she points again, slower this time, more emphatic.

The rabbit and the tin.

Herself.

The sequence repeats with unmistakable intent.

You blink, the translation settling into place whether you want it to or not.

“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Her tail lashes once in sharp agreement, and she taps the step with her paw, not loudly, but with enough insistence that the motion reads as a demand rather than a suggestion.

Behind her, Inspector Beans makes another series of careful marks on the paper, then presses his paw down firmly as though sealing whatever conclusion she has reached.

Mozzarella remains still at the front, watching the exchange without interruption, allowing the moment to unfold with a patience that feels practiced rather than passive.

Clove appears at your ankle without sound, her small body slipping forward until she sits at the threshold itself, her gaze moving from the rats to the field beyond and then back again, sharp and assessing in a way that makes it very clear she has already decided this concerns her.

She watches the agitated rat for a moment, then lets out a short, precise chirp.

The effect is immediate.

Pesto stills, the tension in her posture easing just enough to shift from confrontation into something more like reluctant acknowledgment, her tail lowering slightly as she glances toward the window again.

Clove chirps once more, softer this time, though no less deliberate.

Inside, the rabbit lifts its head, pauses as though something has shifted just beyond your hearing, and then, with visible reluctance, pushes off from the tea tin and drifts toward the window, slipping out into the open air with a quiet flutter of wings.

Pesto watches it go, her focus unwavering until the space is clear.

Then she looks back at Clove.

There is a long, quiet moment between them, something passing that feels settled rather than spoken.

Clove blinks once.

Pesto steps back.

You let out a breath you had not realized you were holding.

“…right,” you say quietly, more to yourself than anyone else. “So she’s in charge.”

“Functionally,” Copia murmurs, his tone carrying a hint of quiet agreement.

Mozzarella shifts her weight slightly, drawing the focus back to herself, her attention moving between you and Copia with steady composure.

Again, there is no sound.

But the intention is clear enough in the way it settles.

Expectation, and structure.

Something like a proposal taking shape at the edge of understanding.

You glance toward the field, where the mist-sheep continue their slow, drifting movements, lingering just beyond the boundary as though aware of it now in a way they had not been before.

“They want space,” you say, the words forming slowly as you test them.

Copia glances at you, a small, approving note in his expression.

“Yes,” he says. “And terms.”

You huff a quiet breath, folding your arms as you look back at the assembled rows of very small, very serious creatures currently holding what appears to be a structured discussion on your porch.

“Of course they do.”

The inspector rat folds his paper with careful precision, tucking it neatly beneath himself as though the record has been made and will be referenced later.

Pesto gives the window one last, suspicious look before settling back into place.

Mozzarella inclines her head, a small, measured motion that feels like acknowledgment, like the beginning of agreement rather than its conclusion.

The tension across the group loosens, not disappearing, but easing into something more workable, less rigidly held.

One by one, they begin to disperse, their formation dissolving with the same quiet coordination it had when they arrived, each rat slipping back beneath the porch in an orderly retreat.

The morning settles again in their absence, the air soft and strange in a way that feels newly defined.

You stand there a moment longer, watching the space they left behind, then glance back toward the field, toward the mistlings that continue to drift in slow, patient patterns just beyond the threshold.

“…I think,” you say after a moment, your voice carrying a quiet kind of certainty now, “I’m going to need that barn.”

You come to a stop just outside Copia’s bedroom, breath catching in uneven pulls that refuse to settle no matter how hard you try to slow them, your lungs working a little too fast for the quiet of the hallway, your hand braced flat against the wall as though the wood might steady you if you give it enough weight.

Your stomach tightens sharply, tingling with quiet nerves, something in between that curls inward and holds there, insistent, as if it expects something from you that you have not yet decided how to give.

Gerald passes you at knee height, his surface catching what little light filters down the corridor, glowing faintly as he makes a slow, thoughtful loop near the baseboard before drifting back again, tracing the same path with a precision that suggests intention rather than habit.

For a moment, he pauses beside you. He shifts closer.

Waiting, in the way doors always seem to, as though the choice has already been made and all that remains is for you to follow through with it.

You straighten slowly, your hand slipping away from the wall as the last of that sharp, restless energy settles into something more manageable, something quieter but no less present.

Behind you, Gerald continues his slow orbit, humming softly as he goes, keeping the space in motion even as everything else holds still.

“Gerald,” you gasp between breaths, the name coming out thinner than you intend, pulled apart by the uneven rhythm of your lungs as you try and fail to steady them.

The orb pauses mid-drift, then pivots in place with a smooth, deliberate turn that feels almost attentive, as though the sound of his name carries weight enough to redirect him entirely.

Somehow, impossibly, he is now wearing the googly eyes Sunshine had once plastered onto his box, the adhesive long since repurposed for reasons that defy both physics and good judgment, the plastic shapes fixed to his surface in a way that suggests either quiet determination or a deeply concerning level of autonomy.

"Follow me!" you gasp at the orb.

Buzz. Nothing. It continues circling the house.

“Please?” you try again, softer this time, as though volume might be the missing ingredient rather than intent, and you step out onto the porch in your socks with the faint, unreasonable hope that proximity alone might convince the orb to reconsider its current life choices.

Gerald, for his part, continues to hover in a slow, unbothered circuit around the eaves of the house, tracing the same lazy oval pattern as if the architecture itself has become a thought he is still in the middle of finishing, and each pass seems to leave the air slightly more attentive, slightly more aware of itself, though whether that is comfort or consequence remains unclear.

You watch him complete another loop.

Then another.

Then, because repetition has begun to feel like a kind of language here, you try again with more patience layered into it, letting your voice settle into something closer to negotiation than request.

“There are sheep outside,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the field where the mistlings continue their unhurried occupation of your landscape, “and rabbits inside, and a rat committee currently drafting what I can only assume are legally binding opinions about my furniture.”

Gerald pauses mid-air.

Not in the way of interruption, but in the way of consideration, as though the information has been placed into a very large room inside him and is now being walked around slowly.

For a moment, nothing changes.