By morning the mould on the bedroom wall was knee height. She studied it from above. Patterns of green spiraled upward. She let out a long breath, and it seemed to inch higher. She inhaled and took in spores. They brewed within her.
She stumbled her way out of the room to the kitchen and like tiny shadows spores followed beside her. In slow bursts, they sprung up as moss on the hallway carpet.
Coming to rest on the nearest counter top, she tapped the kettle on to boil. The steam wet the walls, mould latching onto each droplet, climbing. It seemed strangely beautiful, the battle upstream, climatically orchestrated by the bubbling of the kettle. Would the mould make it to the ceiling before the kettle boiled?
The morning light was dappled across the square interior, seeping through the surrounding trees. A nearby tree swayed in the wind, shaking its leaves from side to side, as if trying to wake itself up. She let her head move with it. Each howl of wind brought the trees brushing against the walls, gently caressing.
With tea in hand, she made her way back to the bedroom, moss shrinking away below her feet. She sipped slowly in the doorway, noticing that weeds had begun to grow up through the open window. Snaking their way around the mirror they appeared to stop and study their reflection, weeds amongst weeds.
Her side of the bed was cold now, the chill heavy in the air. Perhaps this was always how it was meant to be, the creeping progression of green. All around her was folding in.