@echoingmuse replied to your post “[pm] Are you [.........] okay?”:
[pm] I am not asking after your businesses. Tentative or not. I'm grand myself. You have witnessed my unglamoured form. It is no punishment to be stuck like this.
[pm] You look very average [the lie stings]. And I wasn't hypothetically inquiring after your beauty. What about the rest? Were you attacked? Are your friends okay?
TIMING: current.
LOCATION: echo.
PARTIES: @echoingmuse & @incatsclothing.
SUMMARY: while working a shift at echo together, rory and cleo help an injured bird.
CONTENT WARNINGS: injured animal.
Cleo did not have it in her to fire Rory. Though it had been one of the last subjects of contention between herself and Oliver, she could not go through with it. The risk had been made clear to her, but she felt for the young woman and the way she carried herself with apparent anger. That first time they’d met and she had picked the record she had, had been one point of evidence for that. More had followed since.
She liked Rory. She could not fire her. She had evaded the touchy subject of her supposed shifter nature, even if she had offered her the truth of her own non-human nature. She simply tried to hope that what had happened at Oliver’s shop would not at hers, and she would not feel forced to fire her after all. Besides, was it not right to give this young woman a place to work? She had been enjoying hearing her talk about her favorite artists, watching her lead customers to a record and finalizing the sale. She trusted her to run the shop whenever Cleo’s glamour was faltering.
Today it wasn’t. She’d woken up and felt it sweep across her body like a well-fitted glove. She’d opened the store and forced herself to start a long-procrastinated chore: washing the windows. They were done now, and it almost seemed like they did not exist. She was looking at it with satisfaction, glancing over at Rory at the till. “I never understood spring cleaning. But this is … damn.” Cleo hummed along with the CD that was playing. “Would you like to do it next time?”
—
Working at the record store was nice. Rory knew she’d gotten beyond lucky after Oliver had fired her to find two jobs she thoroughly enjoyed, especially in a time when most people struggled to find just one. Better still, she found two bosses in Harvey and Cleo who were understanding. Neither of them argued when she let them know she needed time off once a month on the full moons, neither of them questioned the requirement. Neither of them argued with her the way Oliver had, either, even if she had the small issue of Clem doing so at the Wormhole. She’d rather have beef with a coworker than a boss, though, and neither Cleo nor Harvey seemed interested in starting any.
She’d been a little worried about that from Cleo, really. When she’d learned the woman was friends with Oliver, it had felt a little like an anvil hanging over her head. She’d been so sure the anvil would fall, so sure Cleo would cite Oliver’s reasoning and fire her just as he had. Instead, Cleo was kind. Cleo kept her on, was nice to her, gave her space to have her own feelings when Oliver died even though he’d been Cleo’s friend far more than he’d ever been Rory’s.
It meant there was something nice about sharing the space of the store with Cleo while they both worked, Rory on the register and Cleo cleaning the windows. There were no customers in the store at the moment, meaning Rory was leaned against the counter watching as Cleo made the windows look so clean that it was as if there was nothing there at all. “Mmmm, I mean, would I like to?” She raised her brows, tilting her head to the side. “Not really. But I guess I could, if you were —”
A loud bang cut her off, and she flinched. The window vibrated with the force of something hitting against it; there was a smudge against the outside now. Rory hissed. “You might have done too good a job,” she commented. “Was that a bird?”
—
Cleo did not really want to argue about washing windows with Rory, a menial task that may wield satisfying results but still came with the kind of labor she disliked. Perhaps if she was a different person, she would simply saddle up the young woman with all the annoying chores, but Cleo had not quite gotten to that level of annoying-boss-ness yet. Besides, she’d come to rely on the other to do the customer facing parts of the work, what with her glamour continually faltering. Even high coverage foundation was not enough some days.
So was it a blessing that a loud bang kept her from arguing with Rory about how sometimes people had to do thing they did not like? Perhaps. She felt the noise reverberate through the shop and herself. “Oh no,” she murmured, the rubber of her yellow cleaning gloves squeaking. She much preferred fabric ones. She eyed the smudge on the window with a misplaced annoyance, and then started to rush towards the door, swinging it open and exiting the shop.
Right below the ‘Echo’ sign lay a small, fuzzy thing. Cleo felt a warm familiarity course through her that did not bring any comfort. The bird was not simply a bird, but it was a fae. Small and fragile. Her own talent at window washing may have proved fatal to one of her own. Cleo did not want to think about death, but here she was all the same. Oliver rose to her mind, a carer of all living things.
She looked over at Rory, then crouched by the lullabird. Cleo was quiet for a long time, afraid to touch the creature with her rubber gloves. “Do you think it’s …”
—
The sound of the bird against the window sprung both Rory and Cleo into action. In a way, it was almost exciting; retail work could get boring when there were no customers in the store, or when there were so few browsing that there wasn’t much you could offer them. Having something else to focus on instead broke up the monotony a bit, made the day feel a little less dull. Sure, it sucked that an animal was hurt, but… it did wonders for Rory’s boredom. She followed Cleo outside into the afternoon sun, the last chill of winter still hanging in the air.
The bird was small, and it looked… soft. Part of Rory wanted to reach out and stroke it, but she’d heard once that you weren’t meant to touch wild animals, that your scent rubbing off on them could see them ostracized from their communities and isolated. That was the last thing Rory ever wanted to put on another creature; the thought of it put a dull ache somewhere in her chest.
She tilted her head at the tiny creature, sharp ears picking up the small, faint flutter of a heartbeat. A little relieved, she shook her head. “No, it’s alive,” she said softly. “Maybe it’s just stunned? We should take it inside and get it some water, maybe. Let it rest up until it’s good to fly again? I can go grab a shoebox if you can pick it up with your gloves.”
—
The lullabird was so fragile, lying on the cobbles beneath its body. Cleo looked at it with premature mourning, even though she felt the fae’s presence course through her all the same. Rory confirmed the little thing was not dead and she let out a breath of relief. Death was not uncommon to her, and yet she sometimes felt like encountering it one more time might undo her. A dead bird should not have such an impact, but sometimes the weight of all living things on the brink of death was too much to handle.
“I don’t — you’re right, it is,” she said, wishing the fae would flutter up and sing a few notes. There had been lullabirds back at home, for a short spell of time. She and her niece would feed them, ensure their return, and they would sing for them. In harmony they would exist, both the natural and melodic kind. Cleo felt awful looking at one knocked down like this. “There’s some boxes behind the counter.”
She did not look to watch Rory go, simply trusted her employee to do as she had suggested. For all the warnings she had gotten about her lycanthropic nature, she did like the girl. Cleo wiped the rubber on her skirt, wanting to get rid of any leftover wetness sticking to them, and then reached slowly for the body of the fae. She rolled it onto the palm of her right hand, trembling slightly as the slight weight rested there.
—
When the bird sang, a familiar rush of calm came over Rory, and she hummed. She remembered this feeling, remembered experiencing it with Jessie in the woods ages ago when the town still felt new. This must have been the same kind of bird they’d run into then, the one they’d led back to Jessie’s place with granola so that its song could calm her at home just as easily as it had on that park bench in the woods.
It ached now, seeing this one hurt. It made Rory reflect uncomfortably on the nature of this town, on the way it always seemed to twist beautiful things up into something else. Some days, she loved Wicked’s Rest for all of its strangeness, felt a peace here that she’d never felt when she was the strange one. Other days, she hated it. It felt sometimes like all this town did was take, like it drained the life out of everything that happened to stumble into its borders until nothing was left at all. But it hadn’t killed this bird. Not yet. And if Rory and Cleo had any say in the matter, it never would.
She nodded at Cleo’s instruction, sparing the bird one last glance before rushing inside to find a box right where Cleo had instructed. She carried it back out, dropping down to her knees beside Cleo just as her boss carefully picked up the bird. “I got the box,” she murmured, keeping her voice low out of fear of causing more stress to the ordeal for the tiny creature. “Do you know if there are any little bowls or anything? Maybe we can get it some water.”
—
The moments where she was simply holding the fae and looking at it felt like they were suspended in time. Cleo could not help but note its slight weight, the way they seemed so close to nothing at all as they rested there. She hated the fragility of it. She handled fragile things quite often, from old books to vintage concert posters, but none of them were alive. And aliveness was a tough thing for her altogether these days. Especially when it pertained to other fae.
She wondered for a moment if it was the finicky magic in town to blame for the creature’s crash, but she quickly shook the thought. It had been her fault. Even an action as simple as washing the windows could have potential lethal consequences. And this was not simply a human or normal, creature, but another fae. She felt her throat constrict with self-hatred.
When Rory returned, she was struggling to swallow her tears. What a pathetic creature she was, freezing in the face of guilt and choking up already. She looked up at her employee, who she owed some decorum to. “Oh – good, yes,” she said, nodding towards the ground where she wanted Rory to put it down. Once she had, Cleo gingerly placed the small fae into it. It was stirring, but clearly not all there. She took note of a crooked wing. “Their wing is all …” She choked on the words. What had Rory been saying? Bowls. “Can you carry them in? I will go … I have some small bowls. Surely. I have all kinds of … things. Small, large. Oh —” She rushed into the shop, tears hanging off the cliff of her eyes. She felt them spill as she rushed behind the counter in search of a small bowl and hoped Rory was not taking note of her strange behavior.
—
Cleo looked sad, though this wasn’t an entirely unexpected thing. Cleo looked sad often, Rory had found, both when Rory could see her and when she couldn’t. She’d heard the telltale signs of it that human ears might have missed — the quiet sniffles, the muffled swallows that sounded thick and uncomfortable, the clenching of teeth against a grief that seemed to feel like a physical thing. Some days, she swore she could smell it, as if emotion could cling to a person so heavily they stank with it. She didn’t know if there was any truth to that, didn’t know if it was a real thing or an imagined one. She could be making it up. She made a lot of things up, even when she didn’t mean to.
But whether or not the stench of grief was a truly tangible thing didn’t change the fact that Cleo was sad. That was not an invention Rory had built up in her own mind, was not something she had made up herself. She knew some of the grief must have been tied to Oliver, who Rory often tried not to think of at all lest she, too, get caught up in the weight of it, but she didn’t think all of it was. She’d thought Cleo was sad the very first time she met her, when Oliver was alive, still. It was an ocean, Cleo’s grief, and Rory had no way of knowing where the waves came from. She wouldn’t ask, of course. It seemed unkind to do so and, despite whatever front she might have put up, Rory didn’t like to think of herself as someone unkind.
That was why she was getting a cardboard box for an injured bird, wasn’t it? As proof that, in spite of everything, she wasn’t unkind. She could care about something smaller than herself, could make sure it was okay. She watched the little bird shift and settle in the box, alive but aching. “I can carry them,” she assured Cleo, picking up the box carefully so as not to jostle the creature. “Do you think there’s, like… a wildlife rehabber who would take them?” She knew the bird was some kind of supernatural something, but maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe a wildlife rehabber would think it just a bird and nurse it back to health better than Rory or Cleo could manage. “Um, if you’ve got, like… one of those little bowls they put salsa in at restaurants, I bet that would be perfect,” she said, trying to ignore Cleo’s grief. “Or — or a measuring cup could work, even?”
—
Behind the counter, Cleo let out the tears that she knew she should not display in front of Rory. The girl was so young, so tempestuous, so frail underneath all decorum. She had picked out a punk record when they had met, but some of that spirit seemed to have dwindled after her bout of sickness. She had wondered what she had come down with, but had not asked. It was easier to remain on the surface of things these days. To not pry where she might find more tough pills to swallow. Still, she wanted to be something sturdy. She tried to be that for the people at Everlasting Garden, who had seen a change in management in the face of Oliver’s death. She did not want to be a weeping woman, teetering on a tightrope of stability at all times. She did not want Rory to have to worry about her boss, when she should be worried about not destroying another store.
But she was. She wiped at her face, starting to open and close random boxes in search of a bowl. At the aos sí, crying had not been frowned upon. What were tears if not an expression and what was an expression if not art lying in wait? They had wailed together, had created together. There was nothing to create here, though. She was just sad and tired. She got out a cassette tape, discarding the tape with the respect it deserved. When she rose again, her eyes were red, but mostly dry.
“This shall have to do,” she said, plucking at the paper sleeve in the case and placing it on the counter. “It … will hold water.” Cleo looked over to Rory, trying to figure out how she was, in the face of something small on the brink of death. “A wildlife rehabber … no, no, certainly not. This is… it’s a fae. We cannot risk it with humans.” There was some disdain there. Cleo was sure humans would find a way to make a lullabird sing only for them. Her mind went to the story of the nightingale by Andersen, and she looked at the small fae. She remained still for a moment before rustling behind the counter once more, collecting her water bottle and pouring some in the empty cassette case. “This — I must ask the girl I commissioned to do a window painting at Everlasting Garden to do one too — we must avoid this – I must.” She shook her head, putting down the case. “Do you think it should have some sugar as well?”
—
She made no comment on the state of Cleo nor the grief that clung to her like a second skin. It wasn’t something she’d have commented on with anyone, probably — Rory was not always good at navigating the feelings of those around her, and often believed that if someone wanted to talk about something that was bothering them they’d initiate the conversation themselves rather than wait for someone else to bring it up for them — but especially not with Cleo. So many things went unsaid in this little record shop, Rory knew; whatever Oliver had told Cleo about Rory must have lingered somewhere, and yet Cleo had never brought it up. She let Rory take off every full moon without asking, and she had not questioned the extended absence that came after Daiyu’s bullet tore a hole through Rory’s body. She made no comment on the change in demeanor that followed for Rory, the way she felt so much sadder now that she was certain it must have shown on her just as it did on Cleo, and didn’t Rory owe her the same? You could fill canyons with the words neither of them said in this record shop. Rory wasn’t sure if it was better that way, but she liked to imagine it was.
And so she said nothing of Cleo’s red eyes, or the fact that the small sniffs and shuddered breaths that came with even the kind of cry you were working hard to hide were difficult to keep away from the sharp ears of a werewolf. (Thinking that word, in reference to herself, still made her stomach clench up; she ignored that, too.)
Taking the cassette case Cleo offered, Rory placed it carefully in the box with the bird. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do for now. “It’s fae?” Her brow furrowed as she studied the small bird. “I didn’t know birds could be fae. I thought it was just… you know, people.” She was still learning about that side of the supernatural world, still mapping out the things outside of shifters that were out there. She watched Cleo fill the cassette case with a small amount of water, eyes flickering over to the bird to see if it would drink. Dread pulled at her chest. Was it going to die? The idea bothered her, and the fact that it did was a little funny. Hadn’t she torn people apart without meaning to? Was it wrong, somehow, to feel sad at the idea of a bird dying when she’d killed human beings? She pushed the thought aside. “Maybe? I don’t… I mean, you probably know more about it than I do. I ran into one like this once, but I didn’t know what it was. My friend and I fed it some granola, and it seemed to like that, I guess.”
—
She knew the tears and sadness clung to her physically. There was no glamour that could cover her emotions, as there was nothing inherently fae about them. Some of the muses at her aos sí would have her believe so, that there was something original and unique about the ways that muses experienced sadness, happiness and everything else — but Cleo was not so sure these days. When she cried like this, she felt as human as it got. When she grieved, she understood all the things humans had written down. Emotion, it seemed, had some kind of universality that even art did not have.
Rory did not say anything of it. Cleo had not said anything of her changed demeanor, either. They barely even uttered Oliver’s name, and that was a shared pain they had. There were other things that they did not discuss, and the reason why a fae crashed into her window would bring her to such tears was one of them. It all went back to the guilt and shame curling at the pit of her being, and even on a good day she struggled to face those on her own. She was glad for Rory, all the same. For the way she let it go unsaid, but remained present. That there was someone here who was not a customer, someone who showed gentleness for something as sacred as a lullabird. There was something within Rory that could destroy, but there was also this. There were also the punk records she kept gravitating towards, of course. But Cleo was sure she had appreciated some of the slower, melancholic music she’d played during their workdays.
“Oh no,” she said softly, “There’s all kinds of us. Those that can pass as humans and then … ones like this. Some are larger than us both combined, and some as small and fragile as this.” Cleo did not mind sharing these things with Rory if only because she knew she was not human. Besides, the way she was handling the lullabird was another point in her favor. “Granola? That’s … smart, I suppose. Fiber and sugar, right?” She wasn’t entirely sure, as she did not bother with such foods. “I don’t have any in my apartment. I do have sugar.” Cleo looked at the lullabird, watching it start to drink slowly. “There she goes,” she mumbled, sounding almost proud.
—
The world was so much bigger than she’d once thought it to be. It was funny, in a way; in school, when she’d been among humans who knew nothing of the supernatural beyond teen romance novels and old wives’ tales, Rory often used to think herself smarter than they were. Not inherently, of course, but just in that she had knowledge none of them did. She knew that there were people out there who could break their bodies down and rebuild them as something more animalistic; she knew that she was one of them. She’d felt, back then, as if she knew everything, as if she had all the secrets the world had to offer.
And then she’d come here. She’d learned that there were things even stranger than the strange things she’d grown up accepting as fact. There was Oliver, who was as much tree as he was man, who had lived for longer than Rory could fathom and still died too young. There was Cleo, who was something she still didn’t entirely understand but was certainly neither human nor shifter. There was Mateo, whose heart didn’t beat even as he walked and talked and lived just as much as Rory did. There were even other kinds of shifters she’d known nothing about, people who were both like her and not like her that had never been entirely explained to her. And here was Cleo now, telling her that there was even more. There were fae who never looked human, who lived like birds and maybe other things, too. It was fascinating. It was terrifying. She wanted to know all of it.
“Are they, like…” She struggled to find the right word. “Sentient?” Did this bird understand her just as much as Cleo did? Could Cleo communicate with it in the same way she communicated with Rory? She had so many questions about all of it. She didn’t know if any would be answered, if any could be. “Mostly, we just used it because it was what we had on us,” Rory admitted with a shrug. “But sugar is good for birds, right? I mean, like… with hummingbirds, you can feed them with pretty much just sugar and water. So maybe this is the same?” She looked down, watching the bird drink the water with a look of quiet wonder. “Do you think it’s helping?”
—
Rory spoke with curiosity and Cleo did not know what to do but answer it. Curiosity was a trait she thought most important, after all. Even the past years had not been able to quell it within her, to undo that natural inclination towards the new and unknown. It was not usually extended to natural phenomena, but even so her appreciation remained. That was another reason why she might not feel as hesitant to share some things about the fae with someone who was not one. It was hardly as if sharing a few details about lullabirds would reveal every secret there was about fae. She had no aos sí to protect any more, anyway. And she did not speak of the way she fed.
“Sentient in the way we are? I don’t suppose so. She does not speak a language the way we do, but she has other ways of being smart. You know, like natural animals.” She smiled a little. “When she sings, she’s magnificent.” As a muse, especially one with as much love for music as she had, she could appreciate a creature that sang. Birds, even those of the natural world, were creatures she loved. Except when a pigeon was cooing her awake.
Cleo watched the lullabird drink, glad that the small creature was feeling a little better. One more death in her proximity might have seen her closing the store for weeks, losing the profit she did very much need. “Sugar, I suppose, is good for every living thing. We all need something sweet from time to time. I think … they can eat bird feed. So seeds and such?” She had none on her. “I can get seeds.” Everlasting Garden had those, and even though they were intended to be sold and then grown into plants, she would gladly sacrifice them for a fae. “I think it is. I hope that she doesn’t have a concussion.”
—
It made sense, the way Cleo spoke about the bird. Rory thought of balam, of the spirits caged inside her siblings’ chests. When shifted, they weren’t ‘sentient’ in the way humans were, either. They were wild animals, ruled by instinct over anything and everything else. But Celeste’s ocelot let Rory pet her once, when she’d sat crying with her back against a tree in the woods because she’d tried and failed to shift alongside her sister. And the last lullabird she’d come across — the one in the park when she’d met Jessie — sang in a way that calmed Jessie’s building panic and expected nothing in return. Just because something wasn’t sentient in the same way you understood it didn’t mean the sentience wasn’t there. Rory understood that, maybe better than most.
“Yeah,” she agreed quickly. “A lot of animals are like that. Maybe all of them.” People thought of nature as being one thing, but people were often wrong. Even Rory could admit that she was wrong, sometimes, even if she didn’t like to do that. “I heard one sing,” she said, eyes locked on the bird in the box. “The one I told you I saw with my friend, it sang. And it was… nice. Calming, you know? It made me, like… forget I had problems, I guess. It was a good feeling.”
The bird seemed to be perking up a bit, still subdued but no longer looking as startlingly close to death as it had when it had first hit the window. Cleo spoke of birdseed, and Rory nodded. She didn’t have to ask why Cleo had seeds to spare; she tried not to think of Everlasting Garden, or the last few tense conversations she’d had with Oliver before his death. She certainly tried not to think of the hazy memories of herself, in wolf form, chasing him through the store with the intent to kill. She’d rather focus on the bird. “If you want to go get some,” she said, “I don’t mind watching the shop. And the bird.”
—
Cleo had encountered a few shifters in her lifetime, but she had never really gotten into the depths of what it meant to be part animal. It was not something she could grasp — perhaps because there was often so much more humanity to shifters, and that in and of itself was a world away from her. As Rory spoke, she wondered if she did from her own experience. From what she knew of the werewolf she housed inside, the creature didn’t seem quite intelligent. Except, perhaps, when it came to destruction. Then again, plenty of fae thrived of destruction themselves.
“That would be a lullabird,” she confirmed, nodding softly. “They’re … their songs can calm people through quite some atrocious things.” Cleo remembered how there’d been a few of them that kept flocking to their aos sí. That was when they’d been on the west coast, decades ago. She’d sang with them. “It’s something some humans want all too badly for themselves, as they often do. Do you know Andersen’s story of the Nightingale? I always thought he was inspired by lullabirds. With the message that a bird like that should not be kept cooped up, of course.”
Rory offered her an out and Cleo was all too happy to take it. While talking of a Danish fairytale and seeing the bird perking up had brought her some relief, she still felt weighed down by the tears she had shed. Going outside for a bit would help, even if she would be faced with Oliver’s store and another bout of grief. “Alright,” she said, “I won’t be long. Let’s get her back on her feet, hm?” She started towards the door, but turned around to correct herself. “Her wings, I mean.”
—
It was unsurprising to think that something like this could be — and sometimes was — taken advantage of. Sometimes, Rory thought that to be the thing that drew all the world together. If a thing existed, someone would find some way to exploit it. If a thing was free, someone would find some way to take that freedom away. She looked down at the small bird, and she thought, with a quiet pang, of the way she sometimes felt she’d been placed in a box all her life, too. Maybe whoever put her there was trying to help her; maybe, like the bird, she was placed there for her own good. But how much freedom had she missed out on because of it? How long had she been caged, how much freedom had she been denied? She thought of Talia, who loved her wolf and could control it. If Rory had known what she was from the start, would she be the same now?
“It’s a good message,” she acknowledged. “I mean, I get wanting the song, wanting to be — calmed, or whatever. But… it’s its own creature, right? It should be free. It should be allowed to fly where it wants to fly, to only sing for who it wants to sing for. Nobody should be putting it in a cage.” She looked back at Cleo, who seemed relieved to have an out. Rory could hardly blame her. The conversation was hard; conversations usually were, lately. Everything felt heavy, all the time. She understood wanting an escape from that. “Yeah,” she agreed. “We’ll get her back on her wings, and she can fly free.”
[pm] Hi Rory. I hope you are well I'm so sorry to have to message you with this news, but it's already doing the rounds and I would rather you find out like this. [User isn't sure, actually, if she is the right person for this.] Oliver died last Friday. He passed It was pea
The store will be closed Monday-Wednesday. If you want to step by for tea, I live above the shop.
[pm] Hey, Cleo. News? Are you firing me? Are you fucking Wait, what do you Oliver is That isn't What
@echoingmuse replied to your post “[pm] Hello Molly. Have you been invited to a cast...”:
[pm] That would be very nice, if you'd let me join you. It's been a while since I've been at a cast party, and considering all the inspiration I took, I'm more or less crew anyhow.
[pm] Of course, I'd feel too strange going alone, anyway. It's also been a while for me, at least... god, eight years, maybe? I'm a little out of practice. But I agree, it'd be a shame if you weren't there, actually! [...] I'm sure you've got something fabulous in mind to wear, but if you need help putting something together, I have access to supplies.
[pm] Hello Molly. Have you been invited to a cast party yet?
[pm] Hi Cleo! Yeah, actually [...] a day or two after our conversation, an invitation was on my workstation when I went in for some repairs. It's next weekend, if you'd like to join me.
[This gift is delivered to Hazel in a green gift bag. Along with a skeleton jellycat, a voucher and some halloumi, is a note that reads:
Hello Hazel,
You don't know me, but I got your name in the gift exchange program. I hope I got you gifts that pertain to your interests.
With the coupon, you can get as many crunchy bones as you'd like. I'd figure it's best to get it fresh.
Happy holidays, and all the best from
- Cleo
There is also a business card for Echo included. #AlwaysBeMarketing]
The knock at the door left Hazel slow to rise from her couch as her eyes had been trained on some cheesy Hallmark Christmas movie she could barely focus on, but when she felt like she wouldn't be bothered by anyone, she rolled off the couch and peaked outside finding a green gift bag waiting for her.
Once she had brought it back inside and was on the couch, she began pulling out the contents. Reading the letter first, before indulging in the gifts; a habit she had long since picked up as a child knowing it was the polite thing to do regardless of if someone was watching or not.
"Cleo..." She had mouthed the person's name as if to commit it to memory, so she'd know who to thank, looking over the business card. Satisfied she had held it in her mind, she sat the note down and looked at her gifts. The cheese had made her mouth water, and she would be sure to enjoy it the next day as a Christmas treat with whatever she had planned on throwing together for herself; nothing major. And when she had felt like venturing back to town, she'd be sure to pick out her crunchy bones and visit Echo with the hopes of finding some new music to rage out to. But her favorite gift, had been the Skeleton Jellycat, that she was now holding close to her along with the other squeaky toy she had gotten from Ms. Betty as she resumed the movie she was watching and snuggled back in with the soft cozy blanket she had wrapped up in along with her new things to cuddle with for when her emotions felt way too big to handle.
