In a sun-drenched corner of a forgotten beauty salon on the edge of the savannah, nestled between a broken hairdryer and a jar of expired glitter gel, lived a hairbrush named Bernard. He was a round, boar-bristled fellow with a handle worn smooth by years of loving use. Bernard had dreams, wild ones—dreams of wind in his bristles, of galloping across golden plains.
But mostly, Bernard just sat.
Until she appeared.
She came at dawn, stepping delicately through the broken pane of the salon's wide glass window. Her name was Clarabelle, and she was an antelope. Not just any antelope, but an eland with cinnamon fur and eyes like sunlit coffee. She had wandered in to examine her reflection in a dusty mirror and left with an accidental swish of her tail—just enough to nudge Bernard off his shelf and into fate.
It was love at first tumble.
Each morning, Clarabelle visited the ruins to admire herself or nibble at the wallpaper. Bernard, now propped up where he could see, watched her with growing adoration. He longed to smooth her windswept fur, to whisper sweet nothings with every stroke.
One day, the wind caught him just right, and he rolled—clumsily, courageously—off the counter and landed with a dull thud near her hooves. Startled, Clarabelle looked down.
”Oh,“ she said softly. ”A brush.“
She nudged him with her nose. Something about him felt oddly warm. She lay beside him for a while, chewing thoughtfully on a strand of abandoned tinsel. The sun set. Bernard didn't dare dream more.
But the next morning, she was gone.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Bernard waited. Dust gathered. His bristles sagged. Once, a baboon picked him up and tried to floss with him. He did not resist.
Then, one twilight, Clarabelle returned.
Older. Slower. With a limp.
She approached the mirror, blinked at her reflection, and paused. Her eyes found Bernard, half-buried under cobwebs and moth wings. With great effort, she knelt.
”I remember you,“ she whispered.
Her nose touched his handle. One last time.
Then she stood, turned, and disappeared into the gathering dusk.
Bernard never saw her again.
But sometimes, when the wind howled just right through the broken windowpanes, he swore he could hear hoofbeats—faint, fading, and full of longing.
And in those moments, Bernard felt almost alive.
Almost.