On the right side of the yard, where my aunt used to grow coneflowers, a fox built a den.

            We rarely spotted the animal, but its home and the pawprints it left in its wake remained a token of its existence and uncanny inability to die. Back when the family got together to dine or celebrate, I would sit under the table and listen as the adults bet on the fox. They joked the animal would outlive them all, but not a single one of them stayed to find out if their premonitions would become true or not. A single death was enough. My aunt got buried, the fox lived, and everyone left as if the creature had cursed them, leaving behind a creaking house no one would think about for years to come.

            It didn’t surprise me that at age thirty I would be the only one returning to the house. Money ran low and the place had to be sold to whoever might take it, but years of dust and old furniture had to be cleared, and we couldn’t afford any sort of cleaning service. We could have drawn sticks to decide, but I volunteered at the last second. Whether I felt a certain nostalgia towards the house or needed a desperate break from my mother’s nagging, I didn’t know or care. For the next handful of days, the only being I hoped to encounter was the fox.

            As soon as I arrived, I poked my head into the foxhole. My bones cracked as I lowered myself closer to the dark and mildly humid soil that smelled strangely of mint. I don’t know what to make of this moment or what drew me to stick my head inside. I just kept thinking about how dim and cool it looked from afar, how tempting it appeared, even if my family’s collective consciousness pulled me back into the house. It’s all haunted, my mother said one evening she drank too much gin, and it surprised me to learn she still thought of her childhood home. I wanted to ask about it but refrained. It wouldn’t end well for me.

            The hole was longer than I expected—opaque and sturdy, with dozens of roots sticking through its walls—making me think of a grave. That would explain why the fox never died. Perhaps, it was already dead. Though I must admit the animal brimmed with life as it stared back at me on that narrow passage. Its marble eyes questioning the reason behind the sudden invasion of its home, which no one had disturbed in years. Its teeth peeked through its snout, and in that pervasive night, I didn’t know whether to interpret it as hostility, fear, or curiosity. Either way, I turned around when it took a step forward, afraid it would take my eyes out.

            I cleaned the soil off me, realizing I enjoyed the feeling of dirt on my fingers. It reminded me of all the summers I spent familiarizing myself with the house and the desolate land they built it on. It all seemed like an adventure back then. I would pretend to be a gardener, a mother, the owner of a lucrative zoo. Now, all I could do was clean the house and stick my head in places it didn’t belong. I made a list—sell the furniture, clean the floor, dust every corner, and pretend to care for the fate of the property—when in reality, all I wanted to do was mourn the days I ran through the hallways pretending I could fly. The fox had no need to worry about furniture. I envied it for that.

            Little by little, I placed everything into cardboard boxes and pushed the furniture onto the front yard, where all the grass had died. My aunt never had neighbors, no one to bother or ask for help, so I took my time, consciously ignoring my mother’s calls. She didn’t care about me or the house, yet she kept reminding me of how important it was to make a good sale. I sighed every time I saw her name on the phone, but instead of caving, I let the days pass by, sleeping three or four hours when I shut my eyes.

            At some point, I saw the fox again. Its fur shone red like blood, its head had a snowy spot in the middle, and its eyes grew black and glossy like those plastic pearls I once saw in the market near my home. It sat beside the den, unbothered by my presence, staring as if it knew what I needed to do or be. I tilted my head to the side, wondering what would happen if they turned the house into a warehouse instead of a home. Or if they demolished it to abuse the land. Would the fox stay or flee?

            The door closed behind me as I stepped into the sun, pretending to be happy under its rays. Though, in reality, I wished I could live like that creature—in the shadows of an earth-bound home. A makeshift grave to prepare me for my own burial.

My apartment would never be that. Neither would my aunt’s house, with its multiple windows and cracks, where the light always managed to slip through, uninvited, imposing itself.

            I settled in front of the fox, mimicked its stance, and found myself in its pearl eyes. But to it, I was nothing. It didn’t remember me as that young girl that used to stand on her tiptoes hoping to spot its ghost wandering the yard. It had no reason to. And yet, when it stood up and moved towards me with its slithering body, I imagined it understood something about me and my presence and the task I had volunteered for. The fox’s snout stood dangerously close to my face—if it wanted to, it could have bitten my features off—but unlike the first time we faced each other, I didn’t move. And eventually, the fox walked away, back into its hole.

            So, I walked into mine. But unlike the fox, I wasn’t pleased with what I found.

            I decided to paint the walls, bring some life to the scenery, and fight against my discontent. With black trash bags, I covered the windows, most doors, and every outlet within my reach, hoping to preserve them. Yet, as I worked, my worries circled around me like starving vultures, begging me to find a den of my own—a place where I could exist in peace.  

            My mother called again, illuminating the room with artificial light, but instead of answering, I wrote her a message and threw the phone past the foxhole and into the meadows. I couldn’t bear seeing its figure or acknowledge it lived in the same house as me. If my mother wanted to keep track of the house’s progress, she would have to come and see it. Though there wasn’t anything to show. At least, nothing she would like. Most of the furniture stood outside, the windows were covered, and dust continued to linger in the air. The house seemed more abandoned than ever.

            I pressed my eyes, slid down the wall, and went to sleep again.

            In my dreams, I crawled into the fox’s den and curled up in its fur as if I were one of its cubs, terrified of dying under the oppressive sun. I wanted to merge with the earth, melt into its softness, its tenderness, until nothing remained of me but an assortment of brittle bones.

            When I awoke, the fox sat before me, expectant.

            I didn’t know how it got into the house. Maybe it pushed the back door open or creeped through a loose floorboard. Either way, I let it slip from my mind as I spotted a trail of its muddy pawprints alongside a dead mouse. My eyes burned with exhaustion and my limbs grew heavy and numb. But when the fox pressed its paw on my leg, claiming me, it unburdened my soul. Welcome home, I heard it say.

            On my hands and knees, I moved towards the door, counting how many days had passed since my arrival. But I couldn’t tell. I had thrown away my phone and packed all the clocks.

            The sun burned my skin—I could feel myself glowing under it—and the light left black spots in my vision. But I didn’t mind. Instead of worrying, I thought of my den, of the fox and I in the foxhole forever, of my sole opportunity to rest and forget.

            I dug into the soft earth with my bare hands, slowly, deliberately, until the fox mined by my side. It was faster and better fed than I was, but it didn’t bother me. I was a cub compared to the immortal creature. I still had plenty to learn.

            With shaking legs, I carried the dirt inside and let it fall on the floor. The wooden boards complained under my weight and, as I examined them, I noticed dozens of thin lines mocking me. They reminded me of something, but I couldn’t tell what.

            Here and back.

            Here and back.

            Here and back, I went.

            Until I had built my own den.

            The windows stayed covered, blankets hid the cracks under the doors, and the floor disappeared. An earthly paradise made of dirt, where cockroaches and worms and dry leaves breathed. The place where I ate the dead mouse. A gentle bliss of roots and grass and spiders and twigs. Some seeds, some rocks.

            My life, my den, the home where I once learned to fly, quieted. Murky and calm like the fox’s den, it took its own shape. So comfortable, so pretty. The fox stared at me from the sidelines. It liked the den too—I could tell despite my dizziness.

            So, I curled on the floor like I did in my dreams, liquifying into the earth, knowing I belonged, waiting for the fox to settle next to me. I heard my jaw crack and the whistle of my lungs. I tasted my mouth—its texture a heavy paste.

            Amongst the soil I would be at peace, like the fox in his hole.

            No one could attack me. No one could see me.

            I breathed in and out. It smelled like mint.  

Agustina is a writer and aspiring novelist who seeks to highlight stories about art, nature and the human experience. She was born in Argentina but lived in a variety of countries, including the US, where she obtained her degree in Psychology.