Quiet hours were announced politely.
They arrived in the evening, unremarkable and firm, and were treated as though everyone present already understood them. The house lowered its volume. Lights softened. Voices became careful.
Pebble noticed immediately.
She noticed because she did not approve.
A sound passed outside — distant, possibly important — and Pebble barked in response, sharp and certain. This was the correct reaction. She waited for the house to agree.
It did not.
The house stayed quiet.
Pebble barked again, louder this time, offended by the lack of acknowledgment. Nothing escalated. No one joined her. The sound outside continued on its way without explanation.
Mohg lifted his head from where he was resting. He did not stand. He did not bark. He remained still, as if the room itself were speaking.
Pebble stared at him, displeased.
Over the next few evenings, Pebble tested the rule with intent. She barked at footsteps. At shadows. At noises that absolutely deserved commentary. Each time, the house refused to rise to meet her.
This irritated her.
Mohg stayed nearby. He did not correct her. He did not reassure her. He simply existed calmly in the quieter version of the house, breathing evenly, unmoved.
Pebble began to notice the pattern, though she did not like it.
Loudness stopped working after a certain hour. Silence, annoyingly, did not.
One night, a sound passed outside. Pebble opened her mouth to bark — then paused.
She looked at Mohg.
Mohg did not move.
Pebble huffed quietly and sat down instead.
The sound passed. The house remained calm.
Quiet hours continued.
Pebble tolerated them.
