The solemn woods would whisper her name as she passed.
She paid little attention to them, of course. She had walked down this path every morning and evening of every day she could remember. Apart from Sundays, of course. On Sunday she stayed at home to tend to the little hut where she had made her home.
"The solemn woods would whisper her name." She played around with the sentence in her head, twisting the words until they looked just right.
When she stepped over the threshold she didn't put her bag down in the corner of the hall. She didn't put her boots down next to the little cabinet in the hall.
She walked right into the empty living room to write down the sentence in the little booklet on the table. She was very careful not to spill a single drop of ink. Ink was too beautiful to waste.
She looked at her work. The mn were too close. And the www were not...
She paused to find the right words. The right word almost surfaced from her mind, but it slipped away just before she could reach it.
She shrugged. There was still one droplet of ink on the nib of the pen. Gently, she shook the droplet back into the small glass pot. Carefully she screwed the lid back on. It spun exactly three quarters of a turn.
After cleaning the nib thoroughly, she put the items back in the exact positions that she had found them, the pen next to the sharp pencil which she hoped she would use later. What for? She wasn't sure.
The only difference between before and after was that the booklet was one sentence richer. She liked that thought, but she decided it was not special enough to use ink for. She just hoped it would dawdle in her mind for a bit.
She walked back into the hallway where she finally put her bag down in the corner of the hall. And where she put her boots down next to the little cabinet.
It was empty, of course, it was only there so she had something to put her boots next to, as they should be put next to something. Lest they get lonely.
Entering the living room she looked around. It wasn't as empty as she had said it was a few minutes ago (or had she merely thought it?).
There were no living things, of course,
but the comfy chair with the red and green flowers and the wooden bed with the red cushion and the green sheets with ink stains on them were all the company she needed.
The bed didn't belong in the living room, she knew that, but as there were only two rooms in the hut she had figured that the living room was still a better place to put a bed than the hallway.
She had made sure that you had to turn at least a quarter of a turn, coming from the hallway, before you saw the bed. It at least felt like a different room that way.
She took an apple from the bottom shelf to the right and took a bite. Usually she would first cut the apple into eight equal parts, as she should. But today she felt extraordinarily wiggly.
That meant that today she didn't do things exactly as she usually did them. But still a little bit, of course. Where there is no order, there is no way of living. And she very much liked living.
Wiggly. She knew she had needed that word somewhere before.
Wiggly... The willingly wobbly www was not wiggly.
She bit down on her apple contentedly.
With the pencil, she eagerly scratched down 'wiggly' underneath 'the solemn woods would whisper', afraid of losing such a wonderful word again.
With that, her day was complete, happy that she had used the pencil after all.
She was already looking forward to tomorrow.