Narrator: Beth E. | Cornwall, England
My gran let me stay in her bungalow after a bad breakup. It was near the sea, but high enough that you had to walk down several streets to reach the beach.
There was sand on the sofa every morning. Only on the left cushion. I blamed the cat until I put a clean towel over it and found the sand underneath.
I stayed up one night. At half past eleven the left cushion lowered. The fabric of the towel puckered around a pair of invisible knees. Water began dripping onto the floor.
I said, “You can’t stay here.”
The cushion rose immediately. That was worse than it ignoring me. Something had heard and understood.
There were wet marks across the rug, ending at the closed front door. I spent the night at a petrol station with a coffee I didn’t drink.
Gran wasn’t surprised about the sand. She’d been vacuuming it up for years. She said it seemed rude to make a fuss when whoever it was never damaged anything. She’s still cross that I spoke to it like that.
