#OriginalFiction – November 2

She sighed and let her eyes search the room. If she was here for a reason, and the fact that she had not been able to back out meant that there was a reason, it would be best to find it, to do what the magic wanted and then move on. The problem was, there was not anything to search.

The space was tiny. She could step into the center of the room and spread her arms wide, and have her fingertips on both sides be only centimeters away from side walls. From the front door to the back wall with the fireplace, there was a bit more space, enough for the tallest person in town to lie down straight, but not much more than that.

The place was empty, not a table or a chair to be found. Most fishing shacks had at least a chair in them. And there were not any racks on the walls for holding gear, either. There was a broom for the hearth and an old lamp on the mantle. She took the two steps required to reach the fireplace.

There was a candle in the lamp and two matches resting on the mantle beside, as if they had been waiting just for her. She lifted the glass off the lamp and set it gently down. With a practiced hand, she struck a match against the brick wall.

The tiny flair blinded her as the fire came to life. She held it for a moment, then lit the candle before shaking the match to extinguish its flame. She placed the glass back over the candle. Taking the lamp in hand, she once again searched the shack with her eyes, trying to find what it was the magic wanted of her.

But there was still nothing. She pressed a hand experimentally against the wall. Solid. She was trapped until the puzzle was solved. She had learned not let the frustration rule her. Magic had a will of its own, a will more powerful than any person she had ever met. She had tried having standoffs with the magic, and it never worked. The magic always won. A refusal to do anything just meant she would be trapped here longer.

She took the lamp to the center of the room. Sometimes meditation could make things clearer. She sat. She frowned. She slapped the wooden floor. Fishing shacks never had wooden floors, but even if one did, it should not sound hollow.