Duckworth groaned as light entered the blue eyes.

Here we go again, he thought to himself as he pulled the pillow over his straw-haired locks. The sounds of the real world sounded so unnervingly acute along with its dull, blue-tinted lights, it was the world furthest away from the one he had just emerged into.

Again. This was perhaps the hundredth time he had that dream.

The rooster crowed again. Duckworth groaned in an even deeper tone, feeling awfully tempted by the idea of throwing the pillow into the face of that devil.

“Yeah, yeah, I am up, you crested old bugger,” Duckworth mumbled as he managed to push himself into a seated position. He dug out the crust of his eyes before he scratched the harsh locks on his head.

A chirp perked his interest and Duckworth looked to his side where the sight made him slightly smile.

“Well, good morning to you too,” Duckworth said as he stretched, his eyes still looking at the mice that had crawled up onto his nightstand. “- but I suppose you came to greet me to just get your breakfast?” he pointed out, the smile turning crooked as he looked at the mice.

The mice started squeaking in excitement at the sound of food. Duckworth chuckled at that as he pushed the duvet aside, flinching as his toes touched the greased, cold floor in the attic.

Duckworth looked around the attic. It was worn down, with one of the windows blown in, and plenty of holes in the walls to his roommates, the mice of the house. You know you have been living too long among rodents when you start to be able to tell them apart and give them names of their own. Though perhaps that was healthy for his sanity to have some resemblance of community, considering how many years he had lived up here without any ties to the real world besides the ringing bells of the church.

And his mornings started the exact same way, every single day.

Woken by the croaking devil, greeted by hungry mice and feet hitting a cold, crooked floor. And of course, the picture of Madame Michaut on the wall with a pair of old shears pierced through the picture.

He had his routine memorized to the bones as he started getting dressed as his audience stared impatiently into his back. The mice chirped again, acting like hungry dogs as they started to crawl down from his nightstand.

“Yes, yes, I am getting there,” Duckworth said as he fastened his belt consisting of his pouch and shears.

“There,”

Duckworth’s eyes met his own as he saw into the discolored, old mirror. He was a far cry from what he had been in that dream.

His attire was simple, and consisted of unbleached hoses, an off-white shirt that had once been white, and a doublet that had constellations of mending across it. The outfit got topped off with a hat, and a pair of old, worn-down leather gloves that hid his calloused, scarred hands after countless hours fighting pins and needles.

Duckworth adjusted one of the gloves. It was important that he did look presentable though, as he had another day ahead of him making beautiful garments for the upper class of society.

A sloppy tailor does sloppy work, as Madame Michaut parroted day in and day out. Duckworth could hardly keep his eyes from rolling.

“I look just fine, right old buddy?” Duckworth said to the reflection as he smirked, smoothing out a wrinkle on his doublet.

“Time to start the day,”

Because of his indebted existence, Duckworth lived with his employer, Madame Michaut. He had been living here since he was a young teenager, and being her employee as well as her servant, was all he had known for many years now. It wasn’t an easy existence, but memories of what came prior was starting to escape him as he got older and older, which ironically made this life easier.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

First, he had to feed the animals. The poor, old guard dog Lion had been patiently waiting at the end of the staircase that led to the attic. Behind him was an entourage of mice that all squeaked and chirped.

“Good morning, Lion. Are you keeping Loup at bay?” Duckworth said as he patted the dog’s head, which made the crooked tail swing lazily.

The stairs led straight to the basement, and so Duckworth wasn’t too worried about the cat being here, as he was fat and lazy, and wouldn’t want his paws wet by the damp basement. It was quite rare that he had seen “His Majesty” here, scaring off the mice.

Duckworth got straight to work. The dog got his shares of the leftovers from yesterday, and the mice the best picks of the chicken’s food before he went out to the coup.

“Ladies, you know what time it is,” he said out loud to the hens that all clucked eagerly.

The next chore before opening the shop was to dry out the cloth that had been washed the night before. But just as he was heading inside with the basket with corn, he spotted a brown-haired top of hair right above the fencing.

“What are you doing here? And this early?” Duckworth said, resting the basket on his hip as he gestured towards the stray crowning.

A freckled, wide smile now appeared as he only knew that gleaming face all too well. Now a pair of hands appeared, the right with some paper and the left with a pen.

“Listen – I just had this breakthrough on my new story and I juuust wondered if you coul-“

“I told you, I don’t have time for this. So, piss off before I tell Lion that he is now 10 years younger and has all his teeth back,” Duckworth said sarcastically which made the younger man laugh.

The figure now appeared from behind the shabby fence, sporting a bight red doublet with quite the energetic charisma. The man was Germain, his best friend, and coincidentally, only friend. Besides the mice.

The freckled man was son of the neighboring scribe and instead of using his time on practicing his ledgers and signatures, he spent it on writing new “greatest novels”, if you would have to believe him.

“I know the last one was not my greatest work, but in this one there is no talking goose, I swear. Ducky, you know you are the only one I can rely on with my stories!” Germain cried dramatically. “Will you please read it?” he added, the puppy eyes making Duckworth cringe into a smile.

He sighed exaggeratedly, as it was hard not to laugh with that kind of sight.

“Fine. But first after work, today Madame Michaut has a very important client and I can’t get delayed-“

“Oh, you are such a blessing! Thank you!” Germain said, giving Duckworth a kiss on the cheeks before he clapped his hands. It made Duckworth widen his eyes in surprise, but at this point, Germain could hardly surprise him anymore with his chipper attitude. “I can assure you, this one is it! I have been writing on it all night and-“

“Is this why you are acting so nutty? You haven’t slept yet?” Duckworth noted as he looked at the papers with this free hand. The handwriting was quite frantic, but readable.

“Art takes sacrifices,” Germain said proudly as he brushed some invisible dust off his doublet. “- and besides, I do sleep. And when I sleep, I sleep. Unlike someone else who spends all night dancing, being rich and-“

Duckworth gasped. “Shhh! It is not my fault that your sappy love stories are starting to infiltrate my dreams! Secondly, the premise of the dream is not the romance but the riches!” Duckworth retorted, as believingly as he could while a bashful color turned up on his cheeks. Germain started to laugh as he was on the brink of making a kissing face. “You know what they say, Ducky, a dream is a wish your heart makes-“ the younger companion started to sing. Duckworth was close to putting his gloved hands over the face of the man, if only he hadn’t had his hands full.

The sound of clopping hooves and spinning wheels interrupted the minstrel in training. One look at each other, and they were at the fence, glaring over it to see what was going on.

“My oh my,” Germain said as they watched the carriage stop in front of the house, where the sewing boutique also resided on the ground floor. Out of it came a gentleman, cloaked in black.

“Seems like your prince charming heard my song,” he teased, making Duckworth groan before widening his eyes in fear.

“Madame Michaut’s client. She is going to feed my head to the cat,” Duckworth whined as he spun around, running into the basement as fast as he could.

Behind him he heard the snicker of his friend, waving after him.

“Tell me what you think of the story when you read it!”