Posted on by Yuliya Malinina

Whispering Pines Cottage in the morning

Whispering Pines Cottage

The old cottage sits at the point where civilization politely excuses itself and lets the forest take over.  It  stands as a vision in white against the deep green of the forest, its walls , weathered by countless seasons, gleaming in the morning light. A red-tiled roof rises like a cheerful mushroom cap above the morning mist. Dark wooden balustrades running along the upper terrace, and a foundation of rough-hewn stone that rises from the earth like it grew there naturally. Pine trees whisper their secrets around it, giving the cottage its name and protecting it from the world beyond. Everyone known it as “Whispering Pines Cottage” – the little house at the edge – though Madam Setsuna simply calls it home.

Dawn arrives here differently than in other places. First comes the chorus of birds, then the gentle sound of steps as Madam Setsuna makes her way, her steps practiced and precise. Behind her, Strela descends with equal grace, her white fur catching the first hints of sunrise through the diamond-faceted windows.

The kitchen is the heart of their morning ritual. It’s a room that belongs to neither East nor West, but somehow to both. Copper pots hang from rough wooden beams, sharing space with delicate Japanese tea cups. A traditional Slovenian ceramic stove occupies one corner, its warm bulk richly  decorated with handmade ceramic tiles with bottom of clay bricks, which retain and radiate heat longer make it Strela’s  favorite place to sleep. On the stovetop sits Madam Setsuna’s prized possession – an octagonal Bialetti Moka coffee maker, its staleness surface bearing the patina of countless morning rituals.

“Shall we begin our day, Strela?” Madam Setsuna asks, measuring coffee grounds with practiced precision. The iconic coffee maker, whose engineering design hasn’t changed since its 1933 patent, fits perfectly atop the ceramic stove. Strela settles onto her cushion by the glass door – a perfect observation post for both the kitchen and the garden beyond. Her glasses catch the morning light as she watches her human companion’s familiar coffee ritual.

The soft bubbling sound of brewing coffee mingles with morning birdsong. Madam Setsuna doesn’t hover over the coffee maker – she knows its voice well enough to recognize when the coffee is ready. Instead, she moves to tend her orchids in glasses, each glass carefully labeled in both Japanese and Slovenian. The familiar gurgling sound of the Moka maker signals that breakfast is nearly ready.

Outside their window, the gravel path winds between carefully tended beds of mixed botanicals. A covered well stands sentinel near the cottage entrance, its wooden roof matching the main house. Stone borders line the path, collecting morning dew like precious gems. The garden extends into a natural clearing, where Slovenian wildflowers bloom wherever they please between pines, firs, thujas and birches grow mixed with yucca.

Inside, as the last drops of coffee emerge with a characteristic puff of steam, Madam Setsuna pours the rich brew into a cup that once  found at a flea market, its sleek two-layered steel glinting softly in the morning light. The triangular handle, worn smooth with time, felt like it carried whispers of stories from centuries past. It wasn’t just a cup; it was a survivor of ages, resilient and enduring, destined to outlast even her quiet morning rituals. A humble yet timeless companion, as if plucked from the pages of a tale where the mundane holds hidden magic.

The aroma fills the space between worn wooden cabinets and herb bundles, promising another day of possibilities.

Strela’s ears perk up at a sound from the forest – something too faint for human ears. Madam Setsuna glances at her companion over the rim of her coffee cup, their eyes meeting in silent communication. Perhaps this ordinary morning isn’t quite so ordinary after all.

Posted on by Yuliya Malinina

The Morning When Everything Changed

The steam from the Bialetti coffee maker had barely dissipated. Madam Setsuna reached for her old notebook. It was leather-bound and worn smooth at the corners. It was her habit to review her notes while enjoying that first precious cup of coffee. Strela remained at her observation post by the glass door. She watched with particular interest this morning. Perhaps she sensed something different in the air.

As Madam Setsuna opened the notebook, three yellowed sheets of paper slipped free from between its pages. These sheets were creased and delicate with age. They performed a graceful dance to the floor. They scattered like autumn leaves, landing on the warm tiles near the ceramic stove. Strela perked her ears ahead. She tilted her head in that peculiar way, suggesting she found something curious about these ordinary-looking papers.

Adjusting her glasses with a practiced gesture, Madam Setsuna bent to retrieve them. The first sheet caught her eye immediately. It contained a systematic breakdown of Japanese katakana characters. The characters were arranged in neat columns. But there was something unusual about the notations. There were standard character pairs like ソ for ‘so’ and ゾ for ‘zo’. There were also タ for ‘ta’ and ダ for ‘da’. Additional markings were present. Subtle variations appeared that didn’t feature in any standard Japanese textbook.

The handwriting was precise but old-fashioned, the kind one might find in documents from the early Shōwa period. Blue ink had faded to a deep indigo, and the paper itself bore the subtle crosshatching pattern of pre-war Japanese manuscript paper. But it was the marginalia that made Madam Setsuna pause, her coffee cooling forgotten on the kitchen table.

“Well, well,” she murmured, peering more closely at the sheets. “What do we have here, Strela?”

The Japanese Spitz rose from her cushion and padded over silently. Her own glasses caught the morning light. She studied the papers with an intensity that suggested these were more than mere language notes. The systematic arrangement of the characters was striking. The careful annotations added layers of meaning. Certain combinations were circled and connected with faint lines. Together, these elements hinted at something beyond simple language study.

Madam Setsuna spread the sheets carefully on the kitchen table, her steel cup pushed to one side. The morning sun streamed through the diamond-faceted windows. It cast an interesting pattern across the papers. Certain characters seemed highlighted, inexplicably, by the angle of the light.

“I believe,” Madam Setsuna said slowly, reaching for her magnifying glass, “we may need to postpone our garden work today.” She glanced at her companion with a slight smile. “These appear to be more than just language notes, don’t they?”

Strela’s tail wagged once, deliberately, as she settled into her thinking pose beside Madam Setsuna’s chair. Outside, a sudden breeze rustled through the pine trees, their whispers seeming somehow more urgent than usual. The morning had indeed taken an unexpected turn at Whispering Pines Cottage.