The next morning started beautifully. Too beautifully.
Sunlight slanted through the window like something out of a vacation brochure. Tara woke to the sound of birds and the faint smell of Rhea attempting to make toast. (Attempting being the keyword. Something was definitely burning.)
"I am a domestic goddess," Rhea announced, emerging with two slightly charred slices of bread and three spoons she'd finally discovered in a drawer marked 'Tea Stuff.'
Tara raised an eyebrow. "We're one bad decision away from eating shampoo."
"But at least our skin will glow."
They ate in the porch's sunlight, toes curling against the wood, wrapped in scarves and sleepy comfort. The quiet was addictive.
Too addictive.
---
It started around noon. The power cut.
"Probably normal," Tara said, unplugging her laptop that had barely booted.
"It's fine," Rhea said. "It's a sign. We should go for a walk."
And so they did—through whispering trees and muddy trails, their feet slipping on damp rocks, their laughter echoing off the hillside. They found a meadow. Rhea tried yoga. Tara watched, sipping imaginary wine from a cupped hand.
They came back at dusk.
Still no power.
Also no water.
And one tiny problem: the front door wouldn't open.
---
"Nope," Tara said flatly, trying again. "Did we accidentally book a horror movie set?"
Rhea jiggled the handle like it might apologize. "We didn't lock it from outside, did we?"
"Nope. You pushed it shut, remember? Dramatically. Like a Bollywood mom disowning her son."
"Right. I was feeling theatrical."
"Well, the door's feeling vengeful."
---
They tried everything. Push. Pull. Lift and twist. Even sweet-talking it. Nothing.
Their phones had 23% battery between them. No signal. And a growing number of conspiracy theories.
"This is how it starts," Rhea said. "First the door. Then the ghost with a tragic backstory shows up."
Tara was too tired to be scared. "If the ghost can cook, I'm fine with it."
---
Eventually, they sat on the porch again, wrapped in all the blankets they had, watching the stars come out. No lights, no heaters, and Rhea had dropped one of the sandwiches into a puddle by accident.
"I think we're being humbled," Tara muttered.
"I don't like it," Rhea muttered back.
But even in the mess, they laughed. Because the only other option was crying, and neither of them felt like wasting tears on a door.
---
At some point in the middle of the night, the door creaked open.
Just like that.
No warning. No reason.
They stared at it.
Tara blinked. "Did… the house just forgive us?"
"Or it was never stuck," Rhea whispered. "Maybe we were just pulling it the wrong way."
They looked at each other.
---
Inside, the power was still gone, but everything felt different. Like the cottage had decided to let them in again. As if it had been testing them. Or playing.
Or maybe, the universe just wanted them to slow down, really slow down, and remember what it felt like to be useless for a while.
---
That night, wrapped in layers and candlelight, Tara scribbled in her journal:
"Sometimes the world shuts off your lights just to show you the stars."
And Rhea, curled up next to her, whispered, "I still think the door's haunted. But in, like, a helpful ghost kind of way."