A gale whistles through the sashes and rattles the bedroom door, an unwelcome visitor. I rouse from solitary sleep. Floorboards creak above. A door slams shut. I wrap myself in felted wool and rise, quivering, to join the other women of the witching hour searching our homes.
“Not even a mouse,” I say, startling at my voice.
Image from Freepik.
Ruminations 