[Louis's Side]
Inside the cottage, I clutched my wig like it held ancient magical protection, back pressed against the crooked wooden door as my lungs fought to calm the riot in my chest.
The ceiling drooped too low, wallpaper peeled like it too wanted to escape.
Cozy? Yes.
'Safe? Not with them outside.'
Beyond the thin walls, the badger paced—a knight denied its duel.
The chihuahuas gathered in tight ranks, tails wagging like tiny metronomes of doom.
And the sunflowers, still armed, still emotionally unstable behind mirrored sunglasses, glared through the window like they could see my heartbeat.
I dared a peek through a crack in the shutters.
Tactical vests. Wagging tails. One sunflower licked its trumpet.
"Oh, come on," I whispered. "Who licks a trumpet?"
The cottage creaked.
The air shifted—thickening.
Above, on the sagging thatched roof, tap tap tap.
I froze.
A shadow slipped across the window.
Clink.
Tiny claws scratching tile.
"…No," I said flatly.
Another clink. A soft, victorious coo.
"…Nope."
Panic jackknifed through me. I bolted across the room like a spooked raccoon and yanked open a side door—
—only to find a daisy glaring back, gripping a sharpened trowel like it meant business.
SLAM.
"NOT TODAY, GARDEN."
The roof groaned under shifting weight. Dust sifted from the rafters.
The chicken was definitely up there. Judging by the scratching and muffled cackling, it was calling reinforcements.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, back pressed to the wall. "I'm being besieged by barnyard lunatics and plants with PTSD."
A floorboard creaked.
"I really miss Ronette," I whispered, voice low.
And as if summoned by that fragile confession, outside, a squirrel let out a shrill war cry—sharp, echoing like a tiny trumpet of doom.
Then—
Silence.
But not peace.
A silence that slithered cold along my spine, wrapping tight, and whispered, "You should be running."
No birdsong. No rustle.
Not even the deranged jazz of a sunflower trumpet.
A silence that didn't settle.
It coiled.
In this garden, silence wasn't peace. It was a countdown.
A breath caught in my throat.
'The air smelled… sweet. Like cinnamon. Mixed with something heavier.'
'Doom, distilled.'
Slowly, heart knocking at my ribs, I edged toward the window.
I peeked.
Empty.
Peaceful.
Suspiciously so.
Like the hush before a jack-in-the-box rips open and punches you in the throat.
"No way they gave up," I whispered. "Not the sunflowers. Not the axe-happy badger. And definitely not the chicken with goggles—"
BOOOOM.
The door didn't open.
It exploded.
Splinters hissed past my cheek like furious toothpicks.
The badger crashed in, roaring "FOR THE QUEEEEEEN!"
Behind him, a sunflower spun through the ruined doorway like a trumpet-wielding hurricane, shades flashing.
The chihuahuas were next—tiny, tactical, terrifying. One somersaulted through the broken doorframe like an action movie star with a vendetta.
I did the only logical thing.
I screamed—and hurled the nearest object, a porcelain duck.
It smacked a chihuahua in the chest.
The chihuahua caught it.
And threw it back.
"TRAITOR!" I shrieked, ducking (ironically) as my own duck whistled overhead.
I grabbed a broom, brandishing it like an underpaid wizard.
"BACK! BACK, YOU GARDEN GREMLINS!"
The badger snarled, raised his axe—
SHING.
The broom snapped in two. The top half flew off like a broken wand of disappointment.
"ENOUGH!" the badger thundered, eyes blazing with herbivorous vengeance.
I stared at the severed broom.
Then at the badger.
Then back at the broom.
"Uh-oh."
Panic detonated in my veins.
I dove behind the nearest couch.
Bad idea.
Something under there growled. Low. Territorial.
I shrieked—an undignified yelp that leapt out of my throat with panic jazz hands—and scrambled backwards, army-crawling straight into the fireplace.
Worse idea.
Something in the ashes smacked me across the face with a sooty tail.
"WHY IS THIS HOUSE FULL OF RANDOM ANIMALS?!" I coughed, tasting century-old soot and broken dreams.
Then, just to complete my fall from dignity, a chicken dive-bombed down the chimney like a feathered banshee, pecking my head like it was digging for gold.
"I SWEAR—" I roared, flailing like a scarecrow in a tornado. "I'M THIS CLOSE TO EATING YOU GUYS RAW!"
That was it. No logic. No plan.
I launched myself out of the fireplace like toast on fire—and did the only thing that made sense:
I yeeted myself through the window.
Headfirst.
CRASH.
Glass exploded around me. My wig flew off like a startled bird.
Midair, I caught it. One hand.
Like a ninja with hair priorities.
'Because dignity may be optional.'
'But fabulousness?'
'Fabulousness is forever.'
I tumbled headfirst into a wheelbarrow, legs flailing like an upturned beetle.
It creaked, groaned, and then took off downhill like it had a personal vendetta against physics.
"WHY IS THIS HAPPENING—" I screamed as the wheelbarrow clattered, bucked, and slammed into a rock the size of my hopes.*
I went airborne.
A single, perfect somersault.
A startled squirrel dropped its acorn in awe.
Then, birdbath.
Splash.
Then, bounce.
Then, rose bush.
Thud.
The roses gasped. One fainted dramatically. Another leaned close, hissed something about manners, and slapped me with a thorny leaf.
"Rude!" I spat, and bolted.
Behind me, the cottage erupted in riot: screeches, crashes, a trumpet blast in B♭, and a chihuahua bursting through the roof like a canine firework.
I staggered into the trees, wheezing, soaked, sparkly with rage.
"Ronette, if I ever find you," I gasped, "you're buying me new shoes. And a new spine."
I was crawling on all fours like a disgraced spy caught in a glitter storm, doing my absolute best impersonation of "nothing to see here."
It wasn't working.
Garden creatures—too many eyes, too few limbs—pursued me like magical debt collectors.
I ducked behind bushes, slid beneath drooping vines, and belly-flopped across puddles like a very damp action hero who had definitely lost control of the narrative.
"Did they plant a tracker on me?" I hissed, just in time to see flying squirrels dive-bombing—wearing monocles. Because why not.
Then—shift.
The garden moved.
Vines curled tight. Branches twisted.
The hedge walls slammed shut behind me with a leafy THUD—like velvet curtains dropping on a cursed stage.
Silence.
Glorious, heavy silence.
I dropped to one knee, arms flung wide to the sky.
"Thank you!"
Then, with the grace of a wilted daisy, I collapsed flat, face-first into grass. Wig askew, sweat dripping.
"Whew. Maybe the garden's finally pitying me," I gasped.
That's when I heard it.
A snicker.
Soft, sharp. Carried on the breeze, curling around my spine.
Sly. Mocking. Personal.
My thoughts froze mid-celebration.
'I don't like that laugh.'
At the far end of the clearing, the garden wall stirred—parting with unsettling grace.
A whisper of movement. Graceful. Too graceful.
The kind of elegance that screamed, this is going to be very bad for you personally.
Then came the sound.
Low. Metallic. Steady.
'Hoofbeats?'
I rose to my feet slowly, like someone trying to sneak past fate in flip-flops.
Every nerve in my body screamed no, but curiosity—because apparently I had the survival instincts of a wet sock—dragged me upright.
My eyes narrowed at the shape forming behind the parting vines.
"…Please let it be a pony," I muttered. "A normal one. Maybe with a cute hat."
The hoofbeats grew louder.
And louder.
And louder.
I gulped.
'That ain't a pony.'
'This was boss music.'
'The kind of music that told you to update your will and say goodbye to your favorite kneecaps.'
[Ronette's side]
At the same time, in a far less cinematic—but equally ridiculous—corner of the garden, Ronette stood knee-deep in what could only be called a heated nature argument.
Not a debate.
An argument.
Five squirrels. Three flowers. A beetle in a monocle.
And a mushroom who only spoke in limericks.
"And I'm telling you," Ronette pleaded, voice strained, "I didn't mean to squish your cousin. That was an accident!"
The daisy, still holding an ice pack to its bruised petal, sniffled dramatically.
"An accident? That's what they all say before the lawnmowers show up."
"DEFORESTATION!" screamed a sunflower from the sidelines, brandishing a protest sign it definitely hadn't had five minutes ago.
It was utter, leafy chaos.