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Oh, They’re So Weird (☉-⚆)

“You recently got laid off of your job. Thankfully, you found an ad on Craigslist that paid quite a bit for you to just housesit! 🍩”

DAY TWO

Previous Day -> Next Day

Contains: Curt and Rod, The Hanks, Farya, Miranda, Kopi, Chairemi, and Mac

🍰 Café Menu 🍰

The sun hit your face like a judgmental slap.

You groaned, turning over with a squint. The curtains were wide open, sunlight pouring into the room like it had something to prove. You definitely remembered closing them last night. In fact, you even did a double take before bed.

Now? Fully open. Like someone had reached in and yanked them apart with dramatic flair.

You sat up slowly. “Okay. That’s weird.”

Above you, the curtain rod gave the softest metallic creak, like it had just finished laughing.

“Finally,” Rod sighed. “I thought we’d have to dump water on them.”

“Oh please,” Curt replied. “They needed the sun. Their under-eye bags had under-eye bags.”

“I’m window dressing, not a miracle worker.”

You ignored the growing suspicion that the curtains were developing a personality and stumbled to your bag to unpack a few things. The wardrobe opened with a cozy creak, revealing several rows of neat wooden hangers.

You grabbed one without looking, and… CRACK

One slipped from your hand and hit the floor. You knelt to pick it up, and froze.

The hanger had split down the shoulder. Clean break. One side barely hanging on.

You knelt down, frowning. “Damn. Sorry, dude…”

It was just a hanger. You knew that. But it felt like more than that. Maybe it was the weird owner. Maybe it was the quiet stillness of the wardrobe. Maybe it was the look of the other hangers, now swaying ever so gently, like they were watching.

You grabbed the first-aid kit that you moved upstairs to make yourself feel better and carefully bandaged the crack, one small beige bandaid, then some tape. You aligned the pieces with care, not rushing it. When it was done, you held the mended hanger in your hands for a moment, then smiled faintly.

“There,” you whispered. “Not perfect. But you’re still good.”

You hung the hanger gently back on the rod, giving it a little pat like you were saying welcome back.

The wardrobe went still.

But inside that quiet world, just beyond your reach, the Hanks stirred.

Hank 5 shifted closer, pressing his smooth edge gently against Hank 2’s side. “You’re alright, brother. You’re home.”

“Does it hurt?” whispered Hank 1, nudging the edge of the tape.

Hank 2 blinked, the warmth of the bandaid still fresh against his splintered frame. “No… it’s okay. They fixed me. They saw me.”

The other hangers closed in, swaying side to side like a gentle group hug. The rod above them creaked as if lowering its shoulders to cradle them all.

“We’ve got you now,” murmured Hank 3. “No one’s tossing anyone out of this family.”

From the nearby window, Curt and Rod had paused their usual commentary.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Curt said, a bit quieter than usual.

“They fixed Hank 2.”

“And didn’t even call him ‘cheap trash’ like that last sitter.”

“…Maybe this one isn’t the worst.”

Upstairs, tucked in the drawer you just put her in with gauze and love, Farya the first-aid kit felt it ripple through the house like warmth in the walls. She had barely even been touched, and yet, her purpose had been honored. Quiet compassion. Careful hands. Seeing what needed fixing and doing it without being asked.

“They’re one of us,” she thought.

And just like that, the house loved them a little more.

You stretched your arms overhead with a yawn, still thinking about the hanger as you padded downstairs barefoot. The house was quiet except for the soft tick of the kitchen clock and the distant drum of rain dripping from the gutters outside.

You made it to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and stared at the stove.

Too early. Too tired. Too much effort.

You rubbed your eyes. “Yeah, no. Just toast today.”

You popped two slices of bread into the toaster sitting peacefully on the counter, bright red and retro-looking, with shiny silver buttons that gleamed under the morning light. She had a little dial that you didn’t touch, because it already seemed… right somehow. You pressed the lever down and stepped back.

The coffee machine stood in its usual spot: sleek and silent like it had been waiting.

“Alright, alright,” you muttered, grinning as you turned it on. “Let’s see what you’ve got today.”

It whirred to life again, warm and purposeful. The scent of fresh coffee filled the kitchen almost immediately: strong, creamy, with that perfect, sweet richness that made you sigh in relief. The kind of smell that made a bad day feel like a fresh start.

Click.

The toast popped up, golden, perfectly warm, exactly the crispiness you liked without being burnt.

But more than that… there was a heart.

Not drawn. Burned in.

A soft, round heart seared gently onto the surface of the toast like it belonged there.

You blinked. Picked up the slice and tilted it in the light.

“…How?”

You hadn’t touched the dial. Hadn’t set anything fancy. But there it was, right in the center.

Unseen to you, Miranda smirked to herself. “What, like I was gonna let them start the day without a little love?”

At the counter, your coffee finished brewing, this time with a leaf pattern etched into the foam. Not the same as yesterday. Different. Thoughtful. Specific.

You held both the toast and mug in your hands and smiled down at them.

“…Thank you,” you said softly, to no one in particular.

But two kitchen hearts beamed in return.

Kopi gave a quiet hum of pride.

Miranda clicked her heating coils once, just to show off.

You munched your toast on the way to the office down the hall, mug warm in your hand, heart still full from the gentlest, strangest morning you’d had in a long time.

Somewhere behind you, the kitchen glowed with quiet pride.

The office was tucked near the back of the house, down a quiet hallway with wood that amplified your footsteps. You hadn’t explored this part yesterday, too busy resetting fuses and bonding with broken hangers.

The door was slightly ajar, like someone had left it open just for you.

You stepped in slowly.

It was small, but cozy. Dark walls. Two windows letting in a soft wash of morning light. A smooth desk that looked like it’d been polished just this morning. A computer sat front and center, silent and gleaming like a well-fed cat.

You lowered yourself into the desk chair and immediately stilled.

“…Huh.”

It was comfortable. Weirdly comfortable. The kind of comfort that knew your posture better than you did. The cushion hugged your hips and back like it had been molded just for you. You sank into it, tension slipping from your shoulders.

You stared at the desk and murmured, “Okay. You’re definitely all haunted.”

The chair made a soft creak beneath you, like a it was laughing.

You wiggled the mouse and the screen lit up, a soft digital glow humming to life. Then, a message:

Software update available.

You groaned. “What the hell. Fine.”

You clicked “Update,” expecting the usual sluggish chaos: endless restarts, spinning wheels, a half-hour of waiting and maybe a crash or two for good measure.

But instead?

The screen flickered for a few seconds. A smooth, quiet restart. Then… done.

Just like that.

No errors. No lag. No crashes. It even booted up faster.

You blinked at the screen. A familiar document was already open.

Your project.

The one you’d been meaning to work on, the one that sat half-finished in your inbox for weeks, collecting dust.

Only… it wasn’t half-finished anymore.

It was done. Edited. Organized. Perfect.

You scrolled in stunned silence. Every file in place. Every sentence cleaned up. Graphs, images, titles, transitions, all lined up neatly like someone had reached into your brain and said “Let me take care of that for you.”

You leaned back slowly, heart thudding.

“…I didn’t… do this.”

Somewhere beneath your fingertips, Mac buzzed softly with pride.

They didn’t need thanks. They just liked being helpful.

“Took someone long enough to update me,” they thought with a soft, content pulse. *“I’ve been waiting for this since forever!”

The chair shifted gently beneath you, a quiet little bounce of support. The desk stayed solid and warm against your arms. You felt… safe. Cared for.

And just a little unnerved.

But you smiled anyway.

“…Thanks, I guess,” you whispered.

The screen glowed just a little brighter in response.

The rest of the day passed in a gentle blur.

You explored more of the house, moving through halls that seemed to stretch and contract depending on how curious you felt. Every door you opened led to something charming: a weight room that somehow felt more like a gym then any gym you’ve ever been to, and snacks, fresh, plated, waiting, left on counters and tables like someone knew exactly when you'd feel hungry.

You didn’t question it too much.

You didn’t want to ruin it.

The couch in the living room was your next conquest, a giant piece that hugged your whole body like a weighted blanket and a therapist all in one. You swore you’d just close your eyes for a second. When you opened them again, two hours had passed, and you’d drooled on the pillow. Just a little.

You muttered a soft “sorry” into the couch cushion, and the cushion somehow fluffed itself back into shape.

It was the most cared-for you’d felt in weeks.

But now, the sky outside the windows had turned dusky purple, the rain long gone and replaced by stars peeking through the clouds. The house had grown quiet again, not empty, just… restful. Like it was winding down with you.

You climbed the stairs slowly, passing the quiet kitchen, the humming hallway, the soft creak of the office door gently swinging shut on its own.

The bedroom was just as you’d left it, only the bed looked a little more inviting now. The blanket folded down slightly. The pillow plumped. It was like it missed you.

You smiled to yourself, crawling in and tugging the covers up.

“…Goodnight, everyone,” you said softly to the room. “Thanks for today.”

No one answered. But the air around you felt warm. Safe.

Curt and Rod shifted in their mounts above the window, just enough to adjust the curtain for the moonlight.

The Hanks rested quietly in their wardrobe, Hank 2 wrapped gently between his brothers.

And downstairs, the heart of the house sighed in unison.

You didn’t see the smile forming in the lightbulb above you.

Or the content twitch in the toaster’s dial.

Or the faint glow in the bandaid on Hank 2’s side.

But they saw you.

And in their quiet, unseen world, they whispered back:

“Goodnight.”

And you slept soundly once more.

Tags: @nightlark100 @stinkyboyfaliure

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