A biting winter morning. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and stale coffee. Inside, fluorescent lights hum, revealing dust motes dancing in the cold light. Outside, gray skies promise more cold, maybe snow.
Chloe’s breath fogged the window. Her fingers, already stiff, traced condensation on the cold glass. Outside, the world was a dull, washed-out grey. December. Always December. A low hum vibrated from the old fridge in the kitchen, a counterpoint to Gran’s clanking mugs. Chloe had forgotten the flamingo. Again. Her stomach did a small, anxious flip.
“Chloe! You see to that flamingo, or it’ll be gone.” Gran’s voice, sharp, cut through the kitchen’s stale warmth. No pleasantries. Ever. Just the demand. It was her job. Her specific, humiliating job. Secure the pink plastic monstrosity before the wind, or a particularly zealous neighborhood kid, liberated it. The flamingo. Gran’s prized lawn ornament. A beacon of bad taste and suburban defiance. It was a solid, garish, pepto-bismol pink.
She sighed, a cloud in the chilled air of her bedroom. The windowpane felt like a block of ice against her cheek. This was the worst part of living back home. The random, trivial tasks that felt like existential threats. She pulled on a thick, worn hoodie, then a heavier fleece-lined jacket. Jeans that felt stiff with cold. Boots. Every layer felt heavy, restrictive. She wasn't just dressing; she was suiting up for battle against the elements, and against Gran’s disapproval.
The back door groaned open, a protest against the cold. The air hit her face like a wet towel, then solidified into needles. Her nose immediately started to run. She hated winter. She hated the mud that was somehow also frozen solid in patches. She hated the thin, weak sunlight that offered no warmth, only a cruel suggestion of it. She hated the flamingo. She hated herself for caring this much about either.
Her eyes scanned the patchy, frozen lawn. The place where the flamingo usually stood, sunk slightly into the frozen earth, was empty. Just a patch of dead grass, a few ice-slicked pebbles. Nothing else. The air punched out of her lungs. Gone. Her hands, already numb, clenched. It couldn’t be. She walked further, boot crunching on frost-crisped leaves, hoping it had just blown over. Rolled into the meager shrubbery near the fence. Disappeared behind the ancient, barely-green rhododendron.
Nothing. No flash of lurid pink. No hint of plastic leg. Just the dead, brown expanse of winter lawn. It wasn’t just gone. It was gone. Her head started to ache, a dull throb behind her eyes. This was bad. Very, very bad.
She retreated, the cold biting at her exposed skin, making her ears sting. Back inside, the kitchen felt too bright, too warm, the sudden change disorienting. Gran was pouring coffee, her back to Chloe, the mug clinking against the counter. The smell of stale coffee, burnt toast. Chloe’s hands felt numb, then started to ache as blood rushed back in. Her throat felt tight. Her stomach churned. She rubbed her arms, trying to conjure warmth, trying to think of an excuse.
“Well?” Gran. No looking back. Just that one word, loaded. Chloe swallowed. It felt like sandpaper. “It’s… it’s gone.”
Gran stopped. Slowly, she turned. Her face, usually a roadmap of mild irritation, smoothed into something else. Something dangerous. Her eyes, usually a watery blue, sharpened. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? You checked?”
“I checked. It’s not there. Nothing. Just… empty.” Chloe’s voice sounded thin, reedy. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to scream. Over a plastic bird. The absurdity was almost funny. Almost.
Gran set the coffee cup down with a deliberate thump. The sound echoed in the sudden silence. “Empty. You mean it flew away? It’s plastic, Chloe. They don’t fly.”
“I know, Gran. It’s not like it sprouted wings. Someone… took it.” The word hung in the air, heavy and absurd. Took it. Who takes a plastic flamingo? And why? What kind of monster?
Gran stared at her, unblinking. Her lips, usually pressed into a thin line, were even thinner now. “Someone took my Myrtle?”
Myrtle. Gran named all her garden monstrosities. The ceramic gnomes were Gertrude and Gerald. The concrete frog was Ferdinand. The pink flamingo was Myrtle. Chloe felt a tremor of something close to terror. Myrtle was more than just a lawn ornament. Myrtle was a symbol. A defiance against HOA regulations, against good taste, against the dull, predictable march of time.
“I… I don’t know, Gran. I looked. It’s just gone.” Chloe hugged herself tighter. She suddenly felt exposed, even in her heavy jacket. The heat of the kitchen was making her lightheaded. She needed to sit. Gran didn't sit.
Gran moved, a slow, deliberate march towards the back door. Her pace was unhurried, almost regal, but Chloe knew it was the calm before the storm. “You didn’t look properly.”
“I did look. Gran, it’s freezing. And I looked everywhere. Front, back, by the compost bin, near the garage. It’s not there.” Chloe followed her, a miserable shadow. The cold air rushed in again as Gran opened the door, not even flinching. Gran, in her slippers and thick housecoat, stepped out onto the frozen porch. She squinted, surveying the barren landscape like a general before battle.
Chloe watched, teeth chattering now. Gran, with her sharp eyes and even sharper tongue, would surely find it. She had to. The alternative… the alternative was unimaginable. Chloe rubbed her arms, her stomach still churning. The idea of searching again, just minutes after being inside, made her want to lie down on the cold floor and cry. But Gran was out there. On the ice. In her slippers. And she wasn't looking at the lawn. She was looking at the ground, right where Myrtle used to stand.
Gran knelt. Slowly. Her joints audibly creaked. Chloe winced. “Gran, don’t. You’ll slip.”
Gran ignored her. Her gloved hand reached down, brushing away a thin layer of frost from the dead grass. Her finger traced something in the earth. Chloe leaned closer, despite the cold. A small indentation. Not just a hole where a leg had been, but a faint, distinct gouge. And then, Gran’s fingers closed around something tiny, embedded in the frozen soil. A shard. A piece of plastic. Chloe could see the distinct, almost iridescent sheen of pepto-bismol pink. Myrtle’s eye. Someone hadn’t just taken Myrtle. Someone had ripped her out, leaving a piece behind. A calling card.
“A calling card.”