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Sarah came home that evening with a fragile hope in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, her mother would meet her at the door with the kind of hug she hadn't felt in months. But the house was quiet, too quiet. When she didn't see her in the kitchen or the sitting room, Sarah crept upstairs and found her mother's door locked.
She knocked gently.
"Mom? It's me."
Silence.
Her voice shook as she tried again, her knuckles trembling against the wood. "Please, just come out. Talk to me."
Still nothing.
By the third knock, the silence shattered with a voice that was cold and broken:
"Get out."
The words stung worse than a slap.
Sarah backed away, her throat burning, and forced her feet downstairs. She cooked dinner in silence, the clatter of spoons and pans echoing too loudly in the empty kitchen. At the table, she sat alone, the food tasting like paper in her mouth. And then, without meaning to, she remembered. The laughter. The warmth. The nights when her father would crack silly jokes, and her mother would laugh until her eyes watered, and Sarah felt like she belonged in the center of something unbreakable.
That warmth was gone now. In its place was a house colder than winter.
She carried a plate upstairs anyway, setting it outside her mother's door. "Mom… food is ready," she whispered.
No answer. No footsteps. No hope.
Sarah didn't try again. She walked back to her room, crawled into bed, and shut her eyes tight. But sleep didn't come. Something pressed at her chest, an ache that refused to let go. She turned, tossed, until finally, a strange pull made her sit up.
The window was open.
Drawn by something she couldn't name, Sarah padded over and pushed the curtains aside. Outside, in the dim moonlight, the Scarecrow stood at the edge of the field — silent, waiting. His shadow seemed longer tonight, stretching unnaturally across the grass.
Her heart thudded, but the pull grew stronger. Barefoot, she slipped outside, the night air biting her skin, until she reached him. She sat at his feet, staring up at that stitched face, and the words tumbled out.
"I don't want this life," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I don't want everything to go back to how it was. I don't want to be alone again. I just… I just want to be happy. Is that really so hard?"
The Scarecrow didn't answer. He never did. But tonight, the silence felt heavier, as if he was listening — absorbing every crack of her pain. She kept talking, spilling her secrets, her fears, her exhaustion, until her throat was raw and her eyes burned.
By the time she stumbled back inside and collapsed on her bed, the sky was paling with dawn. She closed her eyes, finally surrendering to sleep.
But outside, in the field, something stirred.
The Scarecrow's stitched head creaked slowly to the side, as though straining against invisible strings. His button eyes glinted faintly in the dim light, catching the first rays of morning. And for the first time, his mouth — sewn shut with rough, black thread — pulled into something that looked almost like a smile.