Soft Knock

In the dimly lit confines of her cottage, where shadows played tricks, and the wind sang low, mournful songs through the eaves, Elara's heart skipped as another knock echoed against the wood. The sound was sharp, a staccato beat against the steady thrum of rain pelting the roof. Her hand paused over the soft fur of Mr. Pickles, who sensed her tension and flicked his tail uneasily.

"Who is it?" Elara called her voice a controlled blend of wariness and command. She wasn't a stranger to unexpected visitors, but the urgency of the knock, insistent and bold, prickled at her nerves. With a breath drawn deep to steady her rising apprehension, Elara moved toward the door, her steps a silent whisper on the stone floor.

She reached for the handle, her fingers wrapped tightly around the cool metal, bracing herself for the unknown as she slowly swung the door open to reveal what—or whom—the storm had brought to her doorstep.