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She starts as a humble patch of trees situated carefully alongside a wide open lake. The breeze stirs the leaves during the cold January days and it feels like the world sweeping the earth clean to prepare for her. Monsters come early in the month; loud, hideous machinery that tears at the roots and flattens the brush until there's nothing left but a great, naked dirt patch from which she will emerge. There's a pain to it, but not for her. She can sense the land mourning the loss, and although she feels a sense of guilt for it, she can't help the excitement that burbles up inside of her.
There's nothing concrete of her yet—just a feeling, a popping into existence of her soul that swells nebulously above the ground. Still, she knows something better is to come of her yet. Someone has called her forth for a greater purpose, and she is satisfied with that knowledge alone. She can wait to find out more. She's the quiet, patient sort.
He visits for the first time on an overcast, misty day. She can feel Him wandering her boundaries, sense Him bending down to inspect the land across her grounds. It takes Him some time to hove into her full view. He seems to be of the considered, methodical sort. Her sense of time is skewed still, but it seems to take Him nearly an hour to traverse her land before He approaches the shore of the lake. She feels Him pass through her, the warmth of His body cutting through the mist of her soul like a hot rain shower.
Mortal beauty isn't something she particularly bothers herself with. After all, a great many things can be considered beautiful for a great many reasons. Still, something in His countenance and the set of His frame tell her that her creator is of the beautiful sort. His face is carefully neutral and relaxed as He approaches the water, settles hands on His hips, and breathes. She has no lungs, no nerves or senses, but still she tries to time the pulsing beat of her spirit to the rise and fall of His broad shoulders.
He's a powerful sort of creature, she thinks, even for a human. Sleek and muscular, built for a purpose. What that purpose is, she's not entirely sure, but she can't wait to find out. As she considers this, a shrill, trilling sound rings out over the air.
He pulls a shining rectangle from His pocket, looks at it for a beat, pokes it, and brings it up to His ear.
"Hi, mom," He says. His voice is just like she knew it would be. A little flat, a little serious, but considered and deliberate. "Yeah, I'm here now." He pauses, listening to whatever chatter comes to Him from the rectangle. His shoulders shake with a low chuckle. "Yeah, I know. Dad called me while I was driving." He listens again for longer this time. "No, it looks good so far—" He turns mid-sentence, staring right through the center of her—"it's all cleared out, and I think they said they'd be digging the well here soon. Depends on what the weather does." She swings her attention skyward, begging it to behave for Him. It doesn't answer.
He leaves in much the same way He came; slowly, picking his way over every possible square inch he can reach. She hears Him climb into one of the metal horses the humans use to transport themselves hither and yon, listens to it crunch along the gravel drive that extends from her to the outside world, wonders when He might return to her again.
He takes her interest with Him, and so she slumbers until something more exciting happens.
Drilling a well takes days. First, more new machines arrive. After, multiple men spill forth from what she has since learned is called a truck. She has come to understand that the metal horses are made in a variety of shapes and sizes, each with their own title. It seems dizzying and wasteful to her, but apparently the variety is useful when you are so very small in relation to the world. The men hold boxes in their hands and wander around, calling out numbers and thoughts back and forth. They clearly mean something, but the meaning is a mystery to her. Eventually, their flightiness settles and they set to drilling.
Wells are deep, mysterious things. They hold centuries of history within them—the time it has taken for the earth's water to flow and collect, carving out great oceans beneath the ground and settling in enough to survive fires and floods and apocalypses of many sorts. She respects the earth for what it has done and what it is giving up in order for Him to create a place to live within her. She intends to repay the earth with her respect in kind. She'll stand for decades; centuries, if she can. The best gift she can give is her longevity, so she'll offer it up carefully.
Days and nights bleed into each other, the humming of the drill constant and loud beside her. It disturbs her rest, although she finds that she is glad for it. Activity means forward motion, and forward motion means she will have Him here with her again very soon. He visits just once during the activity, but not for as long as His first visit. He stays only to observe the work, ask some questions she can't hear over the noise, and inspect the activity happening before He returns to His car.
She revels in His presence while she has it, and does her best to communicate when He walks back through her again.
Hello! she greets. I am here! You asked for me, and I have come to meet you! I cannot wait to share myself with you!
He doesn't hear her, doesn't respond, but He pauses within her as she speaks as if He can sense her intentions. That is well enough for her.
Drilling takes days, but construction of the well is short and simple. The men find the bottom, shore it up, install the machinery needed to keep it running smoothly, and depart. It's quiet again after they are gone. Nothing but her and the low humming of the well remain. The well doesn't speak to her, doesn't seem to possess the same sort of spirit she does, but she's satisfied all the same knowing it will be contributing to her mission. He will have the cleanest water, the strongest walls, the calmest woods. She will make sure of it.
Sleep comes for her once more, calm and quiet in His image.
The first sign of her own construction comes on a late winter day. Massive bundles of shaved trees arrive, cut down into boards and smoothed into perfect planks. Strong beams of steel settle down right next to the boards. Boxes and boxes of supplies set down on the great patch of dirt that she watches over. She's giddy with it, the knowledge that soon these things will make supports, walls, porches. These things are intrinsic to her, she knows them as naturally as she knows herself. She requires a foundation, footings, joists, frames. Nobody needs to teach her these words, because they were always going to be a part of her, and so this knowledge was also always going to be a part of her.
Over time, men come to her to dig out the earth, level it, fill it with concrete and steel. Great lengths of rebar and beams are placed in her grounds. She shivers with the touch of each, not for the physical sensation, but for the joy of knowing she is one step closer to bringing Him in.
He visits more often now. Each new stage brings Him back for approval and evaluation.
"Shane," the foreman greets Him on his first return. Shane. His name suits him well. Short, to the point, simple. Built for purpose. She loves it dearly. She knows without a shadow of a doubt that Shane will have many happy years within her walls.
And so it goes. Months of construction, of review, of adjustments and finalization. Months of short visits from Shane when he isn't busy with his job. He's something of a superstar, if the way the construction crews speak about him is any indication. Reserved, a little intimidating, overtly polite. Shane is every bit of the type of person she would want to house within her. These things are a blessing to learn. She can only hope Shane loves learning these same sorts of things about her when it comes time.
The process is long. Shorter than typical homes, she overhears, but to her it feels immeasurable. Her walls are crafted of great panels of glass and steel beams. The wood that clads it all is sloped and purpose-built, and that takes masters of their craft to assemble. She appreciates every cut of their blades, every swing of their hammers, every whir of their drills. Every day, she creeps closer to being complete. She weaves the essence of herself in and around and throughout, filling the walls with her love, winding her joy and care around each electrical wire, reinforcing the windows with her protection.
Shane is great and beautiful and clearly talented, but he is also young. She knows this not just in his looks, but also in the way he interacts with the world around him. He projects calm clarity by force of effort, but she can sense something else crawling just beneath his skin. A buzzing sort of anxiety that he carries within himself, tucked carefully away outside of direct view.
With each visit, she can see it more and more clearly. Shane is a precious jewel to her not for what he can do, but for what she knows he can someday be. She resolves to help him get there. She'll offer him the peace and solitude he needs to shed his worries and doubts, and help him reach his full potential. That is the true purpose of a home, in her opinion; to help her inhabitants become the truest version of themselves in a place that is warm and bright and real.
The day the final screw is driven into her walls is magical.
Like a lightning bolt straight to the core of her, she feels the completion snap into place. There is still more to do, of course. Painting and tiling, and installing all sorts of interior decor. But her structure is finished cleanly and without fanfare. In the morning, she is still incomplete, still wending her way through the cracks and crevices, and by evening, there she stands in all her glory. Her spirit blankets the exterior in full. The walls are soaked through with her presence. She reinforces the insulation and floods the concrete beneath the floor.
The site lights turn off for the night and she exhales her spirit, truly filling the home from corner to corner. She presses and expands until no square inch remains untouched. She imagines for just a moment that were it possible to smile, that is exactly what she would be doing.
Shane is pleased upon his next visit. She shimmers with his pleasure. He runs a reverent hand along her interior walls, in awe of her. She isn't even done yet, she thinks, as he chatters with the builder, thanking them for their hard work. When she's finished, she truly knows she'll be a thing of glory.
But, of course she will; Shane created her.
The final months of construction are fast, overseen not by Shane, but by someone he notes as his interior designer. She can suss out the meaning of it, but she doesn't quite understand why he would need someone else to decorate her. This, she reasons, must be another one of those things Shane doesn't quite trust himself with yet. Not to worry, she'll help him find himself in that way, too.
The designer calls her a cottage. She doesn't feel like a cottage. She feels like a castle, like a great keep meant to hold and protect a singular king. Still, Cottage does have a cozy sort of feeling to it. Something warm and welcoming settles within her. If she is to be Shane's Cottage, then she will be the best one he could ever hope for.
Granite and tiling and doors are installed. Her walls are painted and decorated, lighting and fixtures installed. She feels glittering, as though Shane has chosen to adorn her with the most beautiful jewels he could find. It's all so overwhelming, and yet she feels perfect with it all. Her purpose feels renewed, finalized and settled.
Shane comes for a final walkthrough before they turn on her power.
There's something to him that day, something a little on the heavy side. He's thinking about her, but he's not. He's looking at her, but he's also looking through her. He smiles at the appropriate times when the foreman and the designer speak with him. He shakes the hand of the architect and burbles praise for the vision come to life all around them.
But still.
And maybe he doesn't even know it. Maybe he doesn't realize what it is she can see draped over him like a shroud.
This strong, brilliant, beautiful Shane of hers. Something isn't sitting right. She knows it as well as she knows herself. And she's truly come to know herself well these past handful of months. As she's taken her final shape, received her last bits of polishing, her final fixtures, she's come to settle within herself for the long haul.
The designer talks Shane through the decor that will be placed in the coming weeks, and the Cottage goes giddy with it. It's exactly what she needs, she thinks, to show Shane that he can be comfortable here. He can be happy and at peace. She knows it for a fact.
The summer has long given way to fall, and winter is approaching with her icy grip by the time electricity hums through the Cottage and the final bits of soft textiles are scattered within her. She glimmers with warmth in the night, her lights casting a soft glow out over the porch and reaching toward the water. Shane doesn't have much time for her right now, his career calling for his attention at this time of year. He stands on her back porch, thumbs looped in his pants pockets, staring out over the lawn. She watches him take in a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling heavily with it.
"Okay," he says to himself.
Okay, she agrees.
She watches silently as he walks inside, switches off all the lights, and makes his way back out to his car. He locks her up and pats her doorframe on his way out. Shane doesn't say much, never really speaks more than he has to, but that is just as well. She understands him as she understands herself. He has to go away for a while to work, but he'll be back soon enough. She can content herself to watch the seasons change around her. She'll listen to the loons as they migrate and return, and use them to track her time waiting for him.
She'll stand proud and tall and wait for him as she was designed to do, and she'll be happy.
And she is happy. Happy to receive him during the summer for a short time. He brings his mother and father into her occasionally. They traipse through her halls, enjoying her protection. They are an extension of Shane himself, the very reason he exists at all, and so she cares for Yuna and David just the same. He gets his looks from them, his spirit, the affect of his speech and movement. They molded and nurtured him, helped him to become what he is now by guidance and example. They themselves are happy. A familial unit just like she'd always hoped to hold within her.
Still, something is missing.
Shane's parents leave him in peace and solitude often. He wakes alone, stretches, goes for runs on her grounds and beyond. He comes home, works out, stretches again, eats nowhere near enough for her liking, showers, goes to bed. He continues on and on like this, a never ending pattern of waking, maintaining, sleeping.
The structure is broken one day with the arrival of a camera crew and a man named Gerald who calls himself a producer. He's a peculiar sort of man, loud-voiced and surefooted even in a place that is decidedly not his own. He directs the setup of cameras, talks Shane through the things they will need him to do "for the audience," whatever that is, and makes him repeat, repeat, repeat himself until Shane delivers each sentence in the exact cadence demanded of him by ESPN. Humans watch television of their favorite things, and although he owns one, Shane only uses his own to watch hockey. Usually, the channel is set to ESPN, so with this, she is finally familiar.
The afternoon of filming ends with Shane doing his stretching outside. A small chunk of slow movements over and over until Gerald is pleased. Just as quickly as they whirled in, he and his crew whirl back out. They pack in a flurry, Gerald thanking Shane with a handshake and effusive praise for his ability and sportsmanship. Shane is clearly over it by the time the Cottage finds herself still again. He lets out a quiet sigh and drops his shoulders, traipsing through her to the bathroom for a shower.
His phone rings. He ignores it.
His phone vibrates. He checks it and rolls his eyes.
This is something she is becoming all too familiar with, as well. Shane never used to much be attached to his phone during his brief visits with her. But these days? These days, it's often in his hands, buzzing or chiming or ringing. Usually from his mother or father. Sometimes from a friend or two. Broken up by sponsorship and brand deal calls. But with definite breaks in between. Now, in those breaks, someone reaches out to him. It's a someone she is unfamiliar with, but very much wants to find out more about. Very rarely does the Cottage hope to have a voice of her own. Homes are not meant to speak with their inhabitants. During these times when Shane reads his phone and his face goes soft, however, she dearly wishes she could be just the tiniest bit nosy.
Still, she revels in the privacy and protection she offers him. He clearly feels safe within her walls during his small breaks from reality, free to do as he likes. To relax. To let down his carefully built guard and spend some time with himself. He comes and goes regularly, pats her walls and doors and windows each time he has something to thank her for. It's a simple pleasure, she finds, to know that he cares for her as much as she does him.
He hires cleaners and groundskeepers for her, but prefers to do his own grocery shopping while he visits. Something about it makes sense to her. The one thing he keeps so tightly under his control, extended into the very action of collecting supplies for it. It worries her, sometimes. How tightly he controls his fuel. How little he seems to care for personal enjoyment in that sense. Shane is good and deserves to enjoy the life he leads, she thinks.
His phone stays consistently active. He leaves again until the next time his job blows him into town. The cleaners and landscapers come through on a regular schedule to keep her tidy. Shane's parents occasionally stop by to air her out and make sure everything is in proper working order. The Cottage could cry with it, the care she receives from each member of his family.
One winter day, something unusual happens.
Shane's mother and father arrive, as they so often do, to air out her rooms and check on the mail. Only this time, they're discussing someone other than Shane.
Her name is Rose, and Shane has been seeing her for a little while now. His mother thinks it's fortuitous. His father hopes it's going well. They chatter back and forth about getting her home to visit, to bring her into the fold. The Cottage wonders how serious it is, if she might be welcoming another Hollander into her walls soon enough. It would be a delight to see Shane start the little family she knows she can do justice in holding. She feels warm with the thought of it.
There's an anticipation in her, even now. Even knowing Shane is still so young. The Cottage is purpose built to take in a family, to watch it grow and change and thrive under her roof. Her studs and rafters are made to accommodate the changes that time will bring her owner. She so looks forward to seeing the changes that life will bring Shane.
Ultimately, however, Rose is not to be. After that first visit with her name on Yuna's lips, the Cottage doesn't hear Rose's name for a very long time.
Not until Shane gets hurt.
His job is a dangerous one, she has come to realize. Hockey is a hard, physical sport. It explains Shane's bulk and exercise regimen. Still, all the muscle in the world can't always protect something as vulnerable as the human body. A very hard hit in the middle of a game removes him from his hunt for glory early. It's a shame to see him in such pain, but the Cottage can't help herself but to be relieved that he is brought home early.
Shane splits his time between his parents' cottage and herself. She's not jealous. She's not. He received a head injury and it's very important for humans to be consistently monitored while healing from those. All the same, she can't help the twinge of pain in knowing that he is so close to her and yet so far.
Over time, Shane gets stronger. His head injury heals, although his broken collarbone takes longer. This means, though, that he gets to sleep within her walls more than he ever has before. A sense of relief overtakes her each day he awakes in his bed within her. Every morning, when socked feet pad through her halls, she rejoices at the sound. Shane is a strong man. He slams the refrigerator door in the mornings when he's not yet fully alert. Even that sound brings her joy and comfort.
Shane is happy here. He is happy with her. Shane is hers and she is Shane's. Everything is as it should be.
Shane is alone. But this alone is different from the alones of the past. This alone finds Shane on his phone more than ever. He spends great chunks of his days typing and smiling. He speaks with Rose sometimes, but in the way that dear friends speak to each other. There's a warmth and humor to their conversations that pleases the Cottage to hear. There's an overall lightness to Shane that she hasn't seen before. He seems more content to simply exist. The hum of anxiety beneath his skin is still there. This is something she has come to suspect will always be with him in some form. But there's an air to Shane now, as if he has come a little more into his truest self.
She imagines hugging him close, congratulating him for growing, for learning and changing.
Shane spends a lot of evenings at his parents' house toward the beginning of summer. Hockey is wrapping up for the season, and because of his injury, Shane's team did not make it to the finals. She can feel his disappointment resonate throughout, although he doesn't voice it often.
It's hot outside when Shane returns home from watching the final game with his parents. He's clearly in some sort of panic, frantically buzzing throughout her rooms, straightening pillows and curtains that were already neatly arranged. He mutters to himself about getting cleaners in again. About grocery shopping. About making lists.
The Cottage watches him wander back and forth between rooms, moving things that had never lived anywhere but where they had already been, picking them back up and putting them back down elsewhere. Changing his mind and returning them to their original place. His hands flex and relax at his sides when he goes outside and stands still in the yard, staring down at the water. They tuck into and pull out of his pockets when he comes inside and stands aimlessly in the kitchen.
He leaves for a little while and comes back with more groceries than she's ever seen. He has junk food. He has soda. These are things that never cross Shane Hollander's lips, even when he's resting inside of her.
He leaves again and is gone for longer. A great stretch of time between the early morning and late afternoon. When he returns, he isn't alone. She watches curiously as another man clambers out of Shane's car, clearly arguing with him while they approach her door. Shane unlocks it, and she watches closely as he takes a deep breath and invites his guest inside of her.
She can feel it immediately. This is not a stranger. This is someone important. Shane is nervous, and it pours off of him in waves. She takes in the feeling, wraps it up in herself, does her very best to project comfort and safety, but still. Still. Shane sets down his guest's bag, leads him through her rooms, babbling about her well and the water quality and the snacks he acquired.
The stranger, no the man, follows him closely, silent and assessing. His eyes are sharp. Something about him is settled in a way that Shane is not. She watches as he draws up to Shane, reaches for him like a lover, speaks to him like a spooked horse, kisses him like a god.
The Cottage is not a foolish thing. She closes off her awareness and allows them their privacy.
Later, when they've collected themselves enough to behave for a few hours, the Cottage contents herself to simply observe. They orbit each other in a way she's never seen Shane behave with anyone else. It's almost as if their bodies already know each other's motions before the men themselves can enact them. Shane moves and the man—Ilya, Shane repeats indulgently—adjusts to accommodate. Ilya changes position, and Shane shifts appropriately to allow him to take up space. They pass each other in the halls with gentle hands on lower backs, their fingers brush carefully when they hand each other items. They chew in sync as they chat and eat, they joke and play like children.
Shane's face lights up each time he so much as looks at Ilya from across the room.
Ilya is a completely different creature than Shane. The Cottage realizes this immediately. Where Shane is quiet and internal, Ilya is expressive and bombastic. He draws Shane out of himself, dragging his playfulness and joy into the light. They wrestle and laugh and caress and share secrets and she takes it all in, absorbs the love, weaves it into her boards and wires and metal and granite.
A particularly restless night finds Shane upright in bed, staring out into the dark of the night. Her windows are clean and clear, protecting him and his love from the world outside. The elements are observable but partitioned from her precious occupants, and she takes pride in providing this clarity for Shane as he works up a plan to keep Ilya by his side forever.
The Cottage has an awareness that they don't have. She knows, in some deep part of her, that what they plan will be nearly impossible. She may not be of the human world, but she has come to understand bits and pieces of it. She's come to know the type of sport they play, the politics of it, the expectations. Shane is not an anxious thing for no reason. Ilya is not heavily guarded just for fun.
She worries and cares and cradles them both now. Their little unit will need a stronghold, and she can be that for them.
She watches Shane fret and whisper to himself, bang his head back against their shared headboard, check his phone and type out notes. Look things up, make calculations, count on his fingers. She watches him wake up Ilya, his other half, the person clearly made for him to attach himself to and grow old with. She watches them talk, watches them bargain, watches them plan and finalize and cry. She watches them hold each other until the sunrise and then walk outside and hold each other some more. She watches Shane turn himself into something new right within her grasp and come out scrubbed clean and terrified.
His father arrives and leaves and then they leave and arrive, and things aren't perfect yet. They aren't permanent yet. They still have to go and be themselves in the wider world, fight for glory and each other, and promises that someday, someday, they can be together in a different place and time that they'll create for themselves.
It's a massive burden, she can tell, that they will have to shoulder. Shane is stubborn. He's beautiful, and purpose built, and a fighter—and so is Ilya, by all observable metrics—but at the end of it all, she still sees him as a boy that had her built so he could have somewhere to run and escape from the world at large.
Shane is hers to keep and protect.
But now, Shane has his own precious thing to keep and protect.
And things go fine for a while. Her doors and windows get closed up for the winter as usual, Shane's parents stopping by occasionally to open them up for her and breathe fresh life in so she doesn't grow stale. There's a different air to them now. A tightness, but also a settled sort of aura. They often speak of both Shane and Ilya. They love them both dearly, taking pleasure in knowing they now have two sons of a sort. The Cottage finds herself inordinately pleased to feel the Hollander family sprout new branches right underneath her.
Things go fine for a while. Until they no longer do. One hot summer day, Shane and Ilya put a hammock up between two of her trees and spend endless hours talking about a charity they've decided to begin. This, she already knows, is the beginning of their plan to show themselves to the world. Between each suggestion and revision, however, thrums a tension that neither one of them seems to want to speak.
She observes them carefully as they continue on this way. Summer camps, time with her, and then away again to perform their duties to themselves and their teams. It repeats for some years unchanged. Ilya stops by every now and again to see her. Just Ilya. But the Ilya who comes to her alone is not the Ilya who comes to her with Shane. This Ilya feels…smaller. Less. His light dimmed and energy nowhere near where it is usually. The Cottage turns this over and over in her thoughts, wishing she could offer him any sort of comfort other than what she already has to give.
The first cracks break wide open during a summer visit when Ilya suggests telling more people about their relationship. Things are fraught for them both. Shane is being treated differently, she knows, although he doesn't exactly tell Ilya how. Ilya himself seems to be struggling with the transition of their lives and the speed at which it moves. She understands, of course. She too wishes to have them closer to her sooner. They are still young and these things do take time. It seems, though, that perhaps her Shane and his Ilya didn't quite agree on the time it would take.
They leave her once more, to wait for the next happy year when she will once more have them housed within. She spends most days resting, storing her energy for the future when they'll need it more often. But as she rests, she dreams. She envisions the future in which they come to her in rest and stay for longer than a portion of the calendar. The Cottage understands that there are other homes. She tries not to feel insult in it. After all, they are men with responsibilities elsewhere and they will always need a place to lay their heads.
She wonders if those other homes are as good to them as she tries to be. If they wrap them up in tender warmth and fold in everything they are to bolster their devotion. Something in her feels a smug sense that it would be impossible for any other place to love Shane Hollander like his Cottage loves him.
Still, she sees them so little for a long time. Even Shane's parents visit less often than they once did. More often than not, it is David alone who stops by. She's thankful for it all the same, but the Cottage can't help but wonder why.
It's during one of these long breaks that something happens. She's not sure exactly what, but she knows it like she knows the laws of the universe. She can feel a difference in her purpose strike one night. The Cottage slumbers in a different way than humans, but still finds rest in it. There's a tingle, a sharpening inside of her that brings her to full awareness.
Something happens and changes who she is entirely.
She comes to understand when they visit next what it is. First of all, there's a dog running her halls. She's a sweet dog, and well-behaved, but the Cottage as she stands has always been a sanctuary for humans and humans alone. Having an animal in her, a creature that barks and slobbers and sheds and cannot speak at all throws the Cottage for something of a loop. For a while, anyway.
One night, Ilya spills something on her floor. Nothing big, just a happenstance of cooking. But he doesn't notice. The cottage does, of course. It's her floor, she notices everything. She feels the spill sit and congeal and stick to her floorboards, throwing an uncomfortable feeling across the spot. Almost like an itch, if she were to compare to human feelings.
She can't help it. She focuses on it entirely, forgetting everything around her. Stews in it. Gets annoyed by it. All else about her little family is forgotten in the intensity of it all.
Anya, the dog's name is.
Anya spends most of her time split between sleeping, playing, and snuffling along the floors. The spill catches her attention immediately. She ambles along, nose to the Cottage's floor until she draws right up to the spill. Cocking her head, she takes great whuffling inhales, sniffing about and considering the splat of whatever liquid it is.
"Anya, come lay down," her Shane calls. Anya pauses, an ear twitching at his command. First, though, her raspy, wet tongue shoots out, laving across the floor and sweeping up the offending muck. The Cottage breathes a sort of relief into the air. Anya's tongue lolls out of her mouth in an approximation of a smile.
The Cottage decides she loves Anya, too.
The other change doesn't take quite as long for the Cottage to suss out. When they arrive, her Shane Hollander comes through first, as he usually does. His hand pops through the door, flicking on her entry light switch, and that is when she spots it. Her focus narrows entirely on the flash of metal wrapped around his finger. She tries not to get too excited, because there really isn't anywhere she can put so much extra feeling without making the house overly thick with it.
She does exceedingly well, in her opinion, until Ilya also comes in with his own matching ring.
Her joy reaches her rafters, pushing up and up and up until some of her leaks through the seams into the air outside. In return, she finds that the bond between them has intensified, solidified in a way that blends with her soul perfectly. Her purpose on earth is very nearly fulfilled, she thinks. The only way her favorite little family could possibly be improved would be to hear the pitter patter of tiny feet slapping against her floors.
But that is still a long way away for them, she thinks. They are still but children themselves, in the grand scheme of all things. They have time and plenty of it.
So it goes on for them. Several more years of leaving and returning, peace and joy flooding her rooms and soaking the walls and windows. The clacking of Anya's nails soundtracking the summers is her favorite tune. Eventually, however, that tune changes. It slows some, but is added to.
Just as she had always hoped, hiccups and wails make their way inside. The Cottage oversees them in awe, glorious and proud of the two of them expanding their family just as she had once dreamed. Two little girls, perfect and shining and so, so very loud. As a concept, she understood the idea of children. They are very small and fragile, and with no words to communicate, they must rely on the only other sounds they can make.
But, goodness, the sounds they make.
Each summer, the Cottage observes those sounds grow and change, taking shape in words that press out and up and bounce back to her from the glass of her windows. Their chatter grows faster and stronger, flowing easily between three languages in such a way that even she is bereft to understand what it is they say. Their fathers, she happily notes, are endlessly charmed by it all. Anya happily wiggles at their feet, her aging tail bouncing to the beat of their conversations.
It's all too much and just right, and at times, the Cottage finds herself overwhelmed with the love and admiration she feels for them. Her purpose was always to be this. To shepherd her very own family to a future of safety and happiness, fulfilled in the knowledge that they could rely on her. That they could have peace within her four walls and know there was always some sort of shelter there for them.
Ilya is injured on the job one day. That, as the humans like to say, is that. His long, illustrious career finds an ending. He's at peace with it, though, if the way he reacts is any way to judge. The cottage finds him visiting earlier than ever, toting their girls and a very creaky but bubbly Anya along with him. They sit together in her living room and watch on the television as Shane himself continues to play their sport with the dedication he has always offered it.
It becomes a routine, Ilya and the girls visiting while Shane wraps up his season. The routine lasts for a few years until Shane finally decides that he, too, needs rest. Their habits change because of it. Now, the Cottage is blessed with long summer visits, longer than she's ever had with them.
The girls are so much bigger now, exploring the world with wide-eyed wonder and scraped knees. They snatch bugs from the trees and catch frogs at the shore of the lake. They lose and grow teeth, lose baby fat, grow inches of height. Fight over favorite clothes and toys, hug at the end of the day before bed. Take baths and read books and ask for five more minutes.
Anya is much smaller now. She's slower to move, sluggish to rise. The Cottage knows what this means for her, and so do Shane and Ilya. They coo to her kindly each night, patting her lovingly on the head and kissing her snout before bedtime. One day, they traipse into the living room to prepare breakfast and Anya stays in bed. Her tail, as ever, is enthusiastic to greet the day and her people, but her body seems unable to match it.
Shane stays in the Cottage with the girls while Ilya takes her carefully to the car. He returns that night alone, eyes red and leash in hand. The next day, the family packs themselves up and heads home early for the year.
She doesn't know how to tell them, because she cannot, that she can sense something else in the walls with her. The cottage can't speak to them of the extra love she feels imbued in the floors. It covers her own like a blanket, a warm sense of duty fulfilled, happy to spend the rest of its days right here with her.
The next year, her favorite family returns. They're a little bit older, a lot less sad, and just as solidified as ever. And she is happy to greet them.
On and on it goes, years of growth and joy and changing. A new dog comes and goes, although she can't help but compare it to their Anya. Their daughters choose his name, Charlie, after one of their favorite cartoon characters. He's slobbery and rambunctious, and maybe not quite as on her wavelength as Anya was. The family loves him all the same, and treats him as his own little being absorbed into their unit.
As ever, she is happy to watch the ebb and flow of life carry their boats away from her and bring them back. The girls grow up and leave home, meeting partners of their own to nervously introduce to their parents. Bringing those partners to her for summer visits as often as they are able.
Yuna stops visiting, and eventually, so does David. The Cottage knows what this means, although she finds it difficult to grapple with at times. She chooses to remember them as they were in her dearest memories: caring for her in Shane's stead. Pleased to greet her and their sons and their children each year for food and stories and memories. For these are the things that gives a home it's purpose, and these are the things that give the Cottage fulfillment.
The visits from the children become more sporadic because that is the way of things, but Shane and Ilya are as consistent as ever until they finally come to her one summer and stay. They stopped keeping dogs after the second, so it's just the two of them together with her. The Cottage is excessively pleased to welcome them home for this chapter of their lives.
And what a beautiful chapter it is. She keeps watch over them every day as they arise, go about their days, receive their children and grandchildren, and continue on as deeply in love as she has ever seen them before. They slow down over time, much like Anya, much like Charlie, much like Shane's beloved parents and every living creature that walks the earth.
Even so, they fill their time with each other and fill her soul with their love and light and the simple delight of their company. She protects them from storms, from snow, from heat and chill. They make slight changes to her as they age, a handrail where there wasn't one before, area rugs where extra traction is needed. The Cottage revels in it all, pleased to be used in exactly the way they need exactly when they need it. For her Shane and Ilya, she is more than happy to be changed.
One day, faster than she even realizes it, their hands and eyes are wrinkled, their skin gone crepey with time. Shane groans when he stands and sits. Ilya's hip pops when he walks too quickly. They sleep less, are restless when they do. They are in and out of bed when the world outside is still dark. They grow quieter, content to spend quiet hours in the garden they have cultivated in her back yard, holding hands and drinking coffee.
Eventually, they leave her, one-by-one. First Shane and then Ilya not long after. The cottage mourns each loss like her own children. The entirety of her life thus far has been dedicated to caring for and watching over them and theirs within her walls like a fortress. They were kind and gentle owners, taking great care in maintaining her grounds and building. Their hands were always swift in repairing both her and each other. Their love imbued her with a sort of power that she could never express to them outright, although she likes to think they could feel it when they needed it the very most. She grieves for months after her halls fall silent once more.
Their children visit yearly for some time, but eventually their own families outgrow the bounds of even her abilities to shelter. They grow so large and require so much attention that she realizes the day they'll need to let her go approaches faster than she had thought. It's okay, the Cottage thinks, to know that they'll be setting her free with love in their hearts. She doesn't mind turning herself over to a brand new story that she can watch unfurl before her just as she did theirs.
But she'll always remember her first, her Shane Hollander. She'll love her Shane Hollander and his Ilya Rozanov.
She'll keep her promise to them and to the land. She'll honor their love and their memory, secure in the knowledge that they are undoubtedly together in whatever there is after the body has gone. She'll remember her Shane's kind face, strong hands, and deceptively serious demeanor. She'll remember his joyous laughter filling her halls and reaching her ceilings.
Shane Hollander will always be her very favorite. Her reason for being. Hers.
And he is Ilya's as much as Ilya is his, so they will belong to each other wherever they are now just as they will belong to her where she is still. Shane and Ilya and the Cottage who loves them.