microfiction

Mildred had noticed the red scarflette wrapped around the old woman’s left wrist; when you worked a cafe you got to know people by traits rather than names. But she hadn’t taken particular heed. The scarflette was just… there. Unremarkably remarkable. Until the spill happened.

It was Gary's first time collecting materials from a magical tree, and while the tree being able to talk helped it also made him feel awkward.

The elderly goblin sighed. "They keep swearing my humors are all normal, but..."

"Don't worry about the sounds, it’s not… It’s just echoes. Sort of. Same for the voices. It’s nothing, honest. We think the building just gets lonely during the off-season. There’s no actual ghosts."