Horace Groundhog prided himself on many things. He was the village librarian, a curator of knowledge and protector of dusty tomes. He had an extensive collection of rare teas, each labeled in his tidy script. His scarf collection was unmatched, boasting fibers from rabbit wool to imported llama fleece. And, most importantly, he was an expert in the fine craft of avoidance—particularly when it came to February 2nd.

This was no amateur operation. Every year, on this exact morning, Horace executed his routine with precision. He woke early—before the first villagers stirred—and ensured his curtains remained drawn just enough to let in light but not enough to reveal anything. He put the kettle on, brewed a robust black tea with a hint of cinnamon, and sat in his well-worn armchair, deliberately not thinking about what day it was.

He took a slow, appreciative sip. Perfect.

Then—

Rap-rap-rap.

Horace’s paw tightened around his cup.

"Horace?" The muffled voice of Cornelius Squirrel filtered through the door. "Have you checked yet?"

Horace took another measured sip of tea. "Checked what?"

"You know what," Cornelius huffed.

Horace sighed dramatically, setting down his cup. "Cornelius, my dear friend, do you know what it means to truly savor a morning? To sit in the quiet, uninterrupted, embracing the stillness before the world starts asking too much of you?"

A pause. Then: "Horace, it’s February 2nd."

Horace groaned. "I was hoping the calendar was wrong this year."

Cornelius chuckled. "It’s never wrong. Just let us know when you’ve checked!"

Horace muttered something unintelligible and returned to his tea.

The moment he was sure Cornelius was gone, he sprang into action.

He drifted to his bookshelves, stroking the spines with reverence. Surely, today was the perfect day to reclassify the travelogues? Or perhaps he should alphabetize by subject instead of author? He had just pulled down A Comprehensive Guide to Cloud Formations when—

Tap-tap-tap.

He nearly dropped the book.

"Horace, dear!" Madame Wren’s voice, lilting and polite. "Have you had a moment to—"

"Ah, Madame Wren!" Horace spoke quickly, flipping open a random page. "Tell me, have you ever considered the science of cloud shapes? Some say cirrus clouds predict a change in weather, which is a much more reliable method than, say, a groundhog’s shadow."

A long silence. Then a knowing chuckle. "Horace, you can’t distract me."

"Can’t blame a groundhog for trying," he muttered.

"Just let us know when you've checked, dear," she said, and he heard her flutter off.

Horace rubbed his temples. This was getting harder.

The kitchen was his sanctuary, and there was no better way to completely lose track of time than to reorganize his spice collection. He pulled down the tiny labeled jars: nutmeg, star anise, smoked paprika. He uncorked one, inhaling deeply.

Yes. Yes. This was important.

He was elbow-deep in his carefully categorized rows—debating whether rosemary belonged in the "woodsy" or "earthy" section—when a familiar, steady knock sounded.

Percival.

Horace froze. Of all the villagers, Percival Badger was the hardest to shake. He was patient, unflappable, and—most infuriating of all—he knew exactly how Horace operated.

"Horace," came the calm, measured voice. "It’s time."

Horace let out a long, suffering sigh. "Percival, old friend, what if—just consider—what if we didn’t need the groundhog method? What if we used the Farmer’s Almanac instead? What if we just… stopped acknowledging February 2nd altogether?"

A pause. Then, in that same level tone: "Come outside, Horace."

Horace groaned, running a paw down his face.

Percival waited.

Horace fidgeted. He was out of distractions. No more spices to sniff, no more books to rearrange. He turned, glancing at the heavy curtain over his window. The sunlight peeked around the edges, waiting.

"Do I have to?" he tried one last time.

"You’ll feel better once it’s over."

Horace grumbled but knew Percival was right. He wrapped a thick woolen scarf around his neck—because if he had to suffer, he would at least be cozy—and trudged to the door.

Stepping outside, the crisp winter air bit at his nose. The village square bustled, but no one was staring at him expectantly. They were going about their business—hanging fresh laundry, stacking wood, gossiping over cups of tea.

No one needed to drag him into the open. They trusted him to do it on his own.

Slowly, heart pounding, Horace turned his head.

And there, stretching long and dark against the snow, was his shadow.

He sighed. "Oh, bother."

Percival raised an eyebrow. "More winter, then?"

"Appears so."

Percival patted his shoulder. "Well, that calls for tea."

Horace perked up. "Oh! I have a new blend. Spiced honey chamomile. I was just about to try it!"

Percival chuckled. "Of course you were."

And just like that, Horace turned back inside, weather duties complete, and settled into his armchair.

Tea, books, and a long, cozy winter ahead.

Not so bad, really.