There is something timeless and magical about an attic room. Maybe it’s the way the ceiling slopes down like the pages of a half-closed book, or how the wind brushes against the rooftop just inches above your head. Whatever it is, my attic room in Pumpkin Hollow has become one of my favorite places to end the day.
It reminds me of a little cabin I once lived in—high atop a mountain, tucked into the woods, where the silence was so complete it felt like the world had exhaled. The bedroom in that cabin was a loft space with a low, slanted wooden roof. I only lived there for about a year, but those nights stayed with me. I can still hear the wind howling through the trees during storms, the soft patter of rain above my head, and the absolute stillness of that first snowfall. I remember curling up with a book and a blanket, the fire crackling below, the mountains outside cloaked in darkness and mist.
Now, years later, I find myself tucked under a similar sloped ceiling—but this one belongs to an old house in Pumpkin Hollow. My attic bedroom is small, but it glows with cozy charm. The wooden walls are painted white and glow warm in the light of my pumpkin lanterns and string lights. A carved jack-o’-lantern grins from the shelf above my bed, casting flickering shadows. Dried leaves, woven branches, and little bursts of fairy lights curl around the edges of the ceiling, as if nature itself moved in to keep me company.
Today was a busy one. I started the morning with a stroll to Hallowed Grounds, where Juniper made me a warm drink—something she called a “Forest Fog,” steeped with juniper and cinnamon, topped with cloud-like foam. The windows of the café fogged gently as I sat and watched the town wake up.
From there, I wandered Main Street, enjoying the crisp air and the way the trees blazed orange and gold. I stopped by The Whispering Grimoire to return a book and check out a new one (a collection of fairy tales from the Wraithwood region—my favorite kind). Then I paid a visit to Blackthorne Antiques, where Everett—some folks still call him Rook—had just received a batch of old bookplates and dried floral bundles. We chatted for a bit, the way people do in small towns, with no rush at all.
As the day wound down, I took the long way home, passing by homes decorated with corn husks, smiling pumpkins, and candles glowing softly in their windows. By the time I reached my porch, the sun had dipped below the trees and the breeze had taken on that just-before-night scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke.
Now here I am, tucked in under layers of blankets in my attic nook. The bed is soft, with a patchwork of pillows and one particularly cozy plaid one I found at the Harvest Market last year. I can hear the wind dancing in the trees again, brushing against the roof and scattering leaves across it. A few leaves have made their way inside—little stowaways clinging to my coat or riding the breeze through the open window. They’ve landed at the foot of the bed, but I don’t mind. It’s just part of the charm of living in a town where it’s always autumn.
The book I picked up is waiting on my lap. The story begins with a girl who follows a trail of glowing mushrooms deep into the forest, and I can already tell I won’t be able to put it down.
The lamplight is low. The pumpkins glow. Outside, the trees sway like they’re whispering secrets. Somewhere in the distance, I think I hear an owl call from the forest edge.
This attic room may be small, but it feels like it holds the whole season inside it.
And tonight, with a good book in hand and the leaves rustling like the turning of pages, I can’t imagine a better place to be.
See you in Pumpkin Hollow soon…
Come back for more tales woven from autumn magic, where the air is crisp, the pumpkins glow, and just beyond the candlelight, a touch of something wondrous—and maybe a little spooky—awaits. 
