---
As Sarah reached the door of the house, her hand curled gently around the handle.
She paused. Looked back.
And smiled.
She raised her hand and waved softly at the empty field.
She didn't notice it.
She couldn't have.
But behind her… the scarecrow's head shifted.
Just slightly.
Just enough to break the rules of stillness.
Inside, the house was warm.
Soft lights. Clinking dishes. Real laughter.
Her parents were… happy.
Talking. Smiling. Like a family from a painting she used to only dream about.
They ate dinner together. They shared stories. They even watched a movie — something light, something funny. For the first time in what felt like forever, Sarah saw them as people, not just shadows passing her in the hallway.
And somewhere deep in her heart, something ached.
> "Let it stay like this," she whispered silently.
"Please… let it stay."
She smiled through the ache.
She laughed with them.
She soaked it in — the warmth, the love, the peace.
After the movie, everyone went off to bed.
But Sarah lingered.
In her room, she stood by the window… and looked out.
The first thing she saw?
The scarecrow.
Still in the same spot. Still staring.
Those hollow eyes like voids carved into night.
And somehow… she didn't flinch.
She didn't feel scared.
She felt inspired.
The scarecrow reminded her of her sketchbooks — of the days she used to draw birds, monsters, trees, and shadows. All the things that didn't fit anywhere else.
She sat down at her desk and picked up her pencil.
But she didn't draw her parents.
She didn't draw the cozy dinner table.
She drew him.
The scarecrow.
She gave him hollow eyes — deeper than ink.
Arms outstretched like a twisted hug.
Torn fabric. A stitched grin. All in blacks and shadows.
But around him?
Butterflies.
Rainbows.
Green grass and glowing light — the way only she could imagine it.
When she was done, she held up the sketchbook to the window, facing him.
> "Look," she whispered, like a proud mother showing off her strange little child.
"I made you something."
The scarecrow didn't move.
Of course it didn't.
And still… something in the air felt like satisfaction.
Sarah smiled, rolled down the curtain, turned off the lights, and went to sleep.
---
The next morning, sunlight poured into her room.
She stretched, yawned, and walked downstairs — only to stop dead in her tracks.
The living room was done.
Painted, furnished, alive.
Her dad turned to her, beaming.
> "What do you think, Sarah? Do you like it?"
She threw her arms around them both.
> "I love it. Mom… Dad… it's perfect. You're amazing."
Her dad kissed her forehead and grabbed his briefcase.
> "I'm glad you like it. I have to head to work now. Bye, honey!"
He left with a smile that still hung in the room after the door closed.
Her mom called her to breakfast.
They ate warm toast, eggs, and jam. She felt full in a way that had nothing to do with food.
Later, she stepped outside to get some fresh air — and ran into some neighborhood kids her age. They laughed, introduced themselves, and talked.
But something kept pulling at her.
So she asked:
> "Why does that old woman always stay inside? Doesn't she ever come out?"
The kids exchanged glances.
> "She's just… creepy," one of them said.
> "Ever since the last people who lived in your house… passed away…"
Sarah blinked.
> "That must be… really sad."
Drake — a boy with messy curls and curious eyes — nodded.
> "Yeah. But after that, she started acting strange. Really strange. Anyway, forget it."
They laughed it off, returning to their games.
But Sarah couldn't forget.
She smiled, played along…
…but deep down, she was unsettled.
> Why was the old woman so afraid?
What did she mean by "Why that house?"
Why does it feel like the scarecrow… is listening?
She didn't know.
So she bottled the questions up… for now.
But in the field beyond the house, something waited.
And it never slept.
---