The Noise Outisde

Towering trees stretched endlessly on every side, their shadows curling around the cottage like protective arms. Letting out a shaky breath, she felt the pressure of the past months begin to ease—if only slightly. She walked up to the house, noticing how isolated it was. For once, it actually looked better than the pictures on the website.

This year has been more challenging than most. She had ended things with her fiancé, and her freelance organising business had sputtered, refusing to take flight. The thought of another tense Christmas among family—where she had always felt like a supporting character in someone else's story—was too much. She could not shake the sense that her family had preferred her fiancé, leaving her feeling like a guest at her own table. Loneliness pressed in on her—a silent ache, constant yet somehow invisible, gnawing at her resolve.

So, she made a choice: to dip into her dwindling savings and book a two-week solitary escape. It was bittersweet—Christmas alone, surrounded by strangers' stories and the unfamiliar hush of the forest. But she craved the distance, hoping it might help her rediscover something of herself. It was the opposite of what her fiancé would have wanted; he would have hated this place. But she needed somewhere to breathe, somewhere to be alone with her thoughts, away from all the expectations she had carried for so long.

Inside, the house was perfectly still. The air was tinged with pine and damp earth, that wild, clean scent you only get far from the city. As she set her bags beside the battered armchair, she noticed a handwritten note on the coffee table, its edges curled as if it had lived there for ages. She found the note odd, but she was not here to explore the wilderness—she had packed enough supplies to avoid venturing out and had no intention of getting caught up in the local ghost stories and urban legends she had read about online. She had never believed in any of it.

The first few nights passed in a gentle lull—just her, a pile of well-worn books, and a stash of snacks. The hush outside was absolute, broken only by the occasional creak of the house settling or wind stirring the branches. In that silence, her senses grew sharper; every little sound was magnified: the tick of the clock, the distant hoot of an owl, the soft rustle of leaves against the windowpane. She found herself listening, waiting, her thoughts drifting between relief and the old sting of rejection. Despite her solitude, she felt her own company more acutely—sometimes a comfort, sometimes a reminder of how alone she truly was.

Then, one night, the quiet was shattered by a faint tapping at the window. She tried to ignore it, pressing deeper into her blanket, telling herself it was only a branch or an animal. But the tapping grew steadier, more persistent. With each rhythmic knock, her heart raced, and she remembered the note, its warning echoing louder than before.

A chill crept down her spine, and the shadows seemed to thicken outside. She didn't want to become the subject of a true-crime or paranormal podcast, but now even the ghost stories felt uncomfortably plausible. For a moment, she felt herself teetering on the edge of belief—wondering if there was more to fear than just loneliness. Her mind spun with possibilities.

Was it a person? An animal? Something else? She found herself arguing with her own fear, insisting there was a logical explanation, that she was safe inside, and she didn't need to investigate. Still, the tension built until her curiosity outweighed her caution. The woods outside pressed in, silent and watching, amplifying every heartbeat and every shallow breath.

She was tired of running, tired of hiding from what scared her. She needed answers, or she just needed to prove to herself that she was no longer defined by rejection or loneliness. She had read too many detective novels; now, she didn't even know where she was running to. She had left her phone at the house so that she couldn't call for help.

So, heart pounding, she ignored the note, wrapped herself in her jacket, and stepped toward the door, ready to face whatever waited beyond the tapping and the trees. She tiptoed around the woods, ignoring all the alarms screaming inside her head. Then she heard the noise again. It was the most careless thing she had ever done in her life.

Now she could hear it clearly: it was the yap of a puppy. Relief mingled with disbelief as she hurried toward the sound. The air was crisp, and the ground cool beneath her bare feet as she knelt to scoop up the shivering bundle. The puppy's fur was damp and muddy, wiry in some spots and soft in others, warmth radiating from his tiny body. His wet nose nuzzled her hand as she held him close, and for the first time in weeks, she felt a genuine smile tug at her lips.

She brought him inside, gave him a warm bath—watching the mud swirl away down the drain—and wrapped him in thick, fluffy towels. He whimpered softly, then sighed in contentment as she dried him, his paws kneading the fabric as if making a nest. After a quick Google on what dogs could eat, she fed him a makeshift meal; he gulped it down, licking her fingers clean. As she held the puppy close, she realised how much she had missed feeling needed by someone else. The warmth of his tiny body pressed against her, filling a hollow space she had not known could be mended. That night, he fell asleep in her arms, the steady rhythm of his breathing and the faint, puppy-soft scent soothing her own restless thoughts.

The next day, she took him to the vet. He had no microchip. She could not bear the thought of him spending the holiday period alone. So, she decided to foster him, determined to give him a safe place—at least for a little while. She knew it would be sad to leave him, but she could not have a dog in her small studio apartment. Still, as she watched him curl up at her feet, his chest rising and falling with each peaceful breath, she felt something inside her shift—a quiet hope that, just maybe, she was capable of loving and being loved in return, even if only for a moment.