The next morning the first thing Fakir did was go inspect his garden. There were more flowers than had been there the night before, certainly he had never seen these yellow flowers currently growing on his lawn. He chose to ignore the fact that they were in nearly uniform swatches that were shaped and spaced suspiciously like small foot prints. He also chose to ignore the fact that he had, in fact, seen those flowers somewhere before.
He went back into his home, firmly shut the kitchen door, and went about having some tea and breakfast. He spent the morning tidying up his home, picking up where he had left off yesterday. Only one woman came to visit during that time, specifically the one who had just missed him the day before. Her ticket of entry was a freshly baked loaf of bread.
"How kind of you, this smells delicious." Fakir politely didn't scowl at her, this woman really did mean well.
"Oh, never you mind, I was just being neighborly. I have my own chores to do so I'll let you get back to yours. If you have nowhere else to go you can come have dinner with us this Sunday."
"Thank you, but I don t think I ll be joining you." Fakir bowed his head politely, hoping she would leave soon.
"Well, I'll be off now, you have a nice day." The woman nodded and smiled and let herself out. Fakir timidly sniffed his newest gift, the bread really did smell delicious and a simple meal with bread was far more appetizing than the complicated casseroles and pies most of the farmers wives brought over.
After lunch Fakir found himself wondering what, exactly, to do with the rest of the day. He had actually managed to get everything clean with only the one interruption, he had even found some old curtains one of the women had gifted him, then put them up in the front room. He stood staring at his sparkly clean kitchen for a while, cleaning was as far as he had planned. He looked briefly at the canvas bag, then remembered something. He had received a trunk from home nearly a fortnight ago but had not bothered to go through the contents.
The afternoon was spent emptying the trunk, sorting the contents, and then placing them around his home. His mother had thoughtfully packed some portraits of his family and a few domestic necessities he had not known he would need when he left home. His father had sent him some clothes and a small toolbox to compliment the one he had brought with him, repairs around the cottage would be much easier with these. In the bottom of the trunk was a letter, he belatedly realized he had not sent word home at all, not even to let them know he had arrived safely and settled in. With a twinge of guilt he took the letter to his desk and sat to read it, soon smiling gently at the words of love his family sent. By then it had grown quite late, so he sat down to a dinner of gifted fish casserole along with some bread and tea, then the evening was spent writing letters to everyone in his family.
The morning after that Fakir decided to do some laundry and air out the clothing and such his parents had sent him. He didn't have much to clean, but it felt nice to be out in the sunshine as he scrubbed his clothes and hung them out to dry. The wash line full of flapping shirts and sheets somehow gave a homey feeling to his little garden. That afternoon he spent a long time over the table nursing his cup of tea even after he had finished lunch, unsure what to do with his the rest of his afternoon. There were, of course, the repairs he really should attempt to start, but he had no training in carpentry and feared making the problems worse. He could attempt to care for the garden, weed and cut it down so it didn't look so like a part of the forest, but he was never known for having a green thumb. Finally he just gave in and did what he knew was long coming, he grabbed the canvas bag and moved to his desk. He pulled out the papers and started separating them out, scanning each page briefly. He pulled some more papers from his desk, along with another pen, and started sorting through those too. Soon he was engrossed in reading what he had written, marking the old pages, and rewriting them on fresh sheets of paper.
It was two weeks since his encounter with fae girl before he finally admitted he was going crazy cooped up inside his little cottage. He had cleaned, weeded, hammered, washed, edited, planted, varnished, written, and polished everything he possibly could. The cottage was now very homey and clean, the garden was neat and trim, and his story and poems had been left untouched for over a week. There was nothing else to do, so with the old canvas bag over his shoulder he locked the cottage up tight and began walking down the lane to the highway. It wouldn't do to go to the same spot he used to haunt, he was sure he had used up all the inspiration to be afforded by a picturesque log with ferns and pond framed in sunlight and shadows. He was unwilling to admit he was afraid if he went back he d find the fae girl there, waiting for him with her big, blue eyes and incessant questions. So with a small loaf of dry bread and cheese for lunch sitting next to his last pen with a cap and his papers, he set off to explore the other side of the forest.