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Chap 1. The Mouse and the Morning
Once upon a glistening morning, when the dew on the leaves sparkled like fairy dust and the daisies bowed to the sun, a small, trembling creature nestled beneath the rosebush hedge.
His fur was damp and ruffled, colored like cinnamon toast. His nose was cold, his ears drooped, and his eyes—big, round, and as golden as honey cookies—looked out with a sort of brave sadness.
He was a fox kit. And he was very, very alone.
He sniffled, tucking his tail tighter around his body. All around him, the garden buzzed with life—bees droned lazily, a butterfly danced past, and the wind sang through the lavender stalks—but Bobbie didn’t feel like part of it. He felt small and strange and cold and forgotten.
Until…
“Now what have we here?” came a voice as soft and warm as toast fresh from the oven.
Startled, Bobbie peeked through a fern and saw the tiniest creature he had ever laid eyes on. A little mouse, no taller than a teacup, stood atop a smooth stone. He had bright brown eyes, a soft tan coat, and a tail thin as a worm. His whiskers twitched as he studied Bobbie with his big brown eyes.
The mouse smiled. “Well, well. You look like you could use a friend.”
Bobbie blinked. “Are… are you a fox too?”
The mouse chuckled, a soft rustle like grass in a breeze. “Goodness, no. Just a humble field mouse. My name is Chris.”
Bobbie’s ears perked up, just a little. “I’m Bobbie.”
Chris bowed with a flourish, one paw to his chest. “Well met, Bobbie. I’d say you’ve landed in just the right patch of the garden. A fine day to meet a new friend, wouldn’t you say?”
Bobbie looked down at his muddy paws. “I don’t really have friends…”
Chris’s eyes twinkled. “Not yet. But the garden has a funny way of fixing that.”
He stepped closer, careful not to startle the kit. “Tell you what. I’ve just made a fresh clover tea, and there’s a strawberry tart cooling on my porch stone. Why don’t you come along and have a nibble?”
Bobbie hesitated. His tummy made a hopeful little sound. He looked at the mouse—small, yes, but not afraid of him. Not his mom, Just kind.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Chris beamed. “Atta boy. Mind your tail on the thyme—Lixie guards it like treasure.”
And with that, Chris the mouse led the little fox kit into the heart of the garden, where clovers bloomed and smelled of moss and baked pastry.
Chp.2 The Bird Who Wants to Purr
It had been just one day since Bobbie followed Chris into the garden, but already he felt something he hadn’t in a very long time, and that was clean. Maybe he was covered in dirt, his paws were muddy and his tail was a tad sticky, but he felt clean. Like his stomach was warm and filled with a fluttery feeling, sweeping his insides clean of the tight coils he felt while alone.
Chris’s burrow was tucked beneath a mushroom cap and lined with mossy twine and flower petals. It wasn’t big—not for a growing fox kit—but Chris insisted Bobbie stay close until they found a better nest for him.
That morning, after a breakfast of wild raspberries and one particularly crumbly tart, Chris said, “Now then. There’s someone I think you should meet.”
Bobbie’s ears perked up.
Chris climbed onto a pebble path winding through tall herbs. “You’re not the only new face around here, you know. We’ve got quite the curious crew.”
Bobbie padded along, sniffing the air. “Will they be scared of me?”
“Some might,” Chris said honestly. “But the right ones never are.”
Just then, a shadow fell over them. Something fluttered above—soft, slow, and wide as an open umbrella.
Bobbie ducked.
Down from the tree swing came a great feathery creature with thick wings, smooth and dark grey, with the most enormous, shiny eyes Bobbie had ever seen—round and dark as blackberry syrup.
They landed with the gentlest fwump on the clover beside him.
Bobbie’s tail puffed. “What are you?”
The creature tilted their head. “I was hoping you’d know.”
Chris chuckled and stepped between them. “Bobbie, meet Rhino the catbird. Rhino, meet Bobbie the foxling.”
Bobbie tilted his head. “Are you a rhino, a cat, or a bird?”
Rhino blinked slowly. “Oh, goodness… I’m not quite sure.” They looked at Chris, wide eyes and a slightly open beak.
Chris nodded, as though he had made perfect sense of the question. “Do you have wings, a beak, and two birdy feet?”
Rhino looked down at themselves, puzzled. “I suppose I do.” Rhino looks up.
“Then you’re a bird!” Chris declared, dusting off his paws of the tarty crumbs still remaining.
Bobbie sat, still staring wide-eyed. “You’re very big for a bird.”
Rhino folded their wings shyly. “I try not to be.”
Bobbie crept closer, sniffed once, and then… flopped down beside them. “You smell like dust and the place under the porch.”
Rhino blinked, then gave a pleased chirrup. “That’s where I nap.”
As the sun rose higher, Rhino told Bobbie stories of the house beyond the fence. Of the three cats who lounged on windowsills—Soonie, Doongie, and Dori.
“I watch them every day,” Rhino said dreamily. “They stretch and yawn and blink so slowly. I wish I could sit with them, just once.”
Bobbie tilted his head. “Why don’t you?”
Rhino sighed. “Because I flap when I’m nervous. And I squawk when I sneeze. And sometimes, cats don’t like surprises.”
Bobbie nestled against their side. “I’d sit with you.”
Rhino looked down, surprised. “You would?” they chirp and jump, excited at the prospect.
Bobbie nodded. “You feel soft. Not like my mom’s fur was, but like your insides are warm, you feel soft.”
Chris, watching from the thyme bush, grinned and whispered to himself, “Told you this garden was full of friends.” Though he was pulled from the scene at the smell of what he thought was fire, turns out he burned the sweet treat he was whipping up. So much for streusels.
And back with the two, Rhino the Catbird-who-thinks-he-might-be-a-cat felt they would never be quite so lonely with Bobbie around, tussling with their big wings. How calm they felt.
Chp.3 The Mole in the Mud
The rain had passed in the night, leaving little puddles in flower pots and glimmering droplets on every blade of grass. Bobbie had never seen a garden so shiny.
Chris was leading him through the marigold trail. “Now, there’s someone else you ought to meet,” he said. “Though I’ll warn you—he’s a bit prickly.”
“Does he have spines?” Bobbie asked, ears twitching.
Chris laughed. “Not the kind you can see. But you’ll understand.”
They walked past the compost heap and into a damp part of the garden, where the soil squished between Bobbie’s paws. It smelled of earthworms, wet bark, and a dash of old garlic.
Chris tapped the ground. “Lewis? You down there?”
There was a grunt. Then the dirt shifted—and up popped a muddy little face with a pink twitching nose and sleepy eyes.
“What is it now,” Lewis mumbled, “I was adjusting the angle of my north tunnel.”
Chris smiled. “Just wanted you to meet someone.”
Lewis blinked at Bobbie. “A fox? Oh, joy.”
Bobbie’s tail lowered a bit. “Um… hello.”
“Hmph,” said Lewis. “More fluff. More noise. What’s next, a deer moving in?”
Chris gave him a look. Lewis sighed and heaved himself fully out of the mud with a squelch. “Fine. Sorry. Not used to visitors, nor mornings.”
Bobbie tilted his head. “Do you live under the garden?”
Lewis looked mildly insulted. “Of course I do. The sun is much too… everywhere.”
He waved a dirt-caked paw. “But I know this place better than anyone. Roots, rocks, secret tubers, sleeping toads. I’ve got maps in my head, you know. Entire networks.”
Bobbie’s eyes grew wide. “Could you show me?”
Lewis blinked. Then he glanced at Chris, who nodded encouragingly.
“…I suppose,” the mole said at last. “As long as you don’t squeal like Sam when you see a grub.”
Bobbie grinned. “I eat bugs all the time.”
Lewis narrowed his eyes in approval. “Good lad. Come along, then. Mind the puddles.”
Bobbie followed him into a wide tunnel entrance tucked behind a rock, casting one glance back at Chris, who smiled and waved. He, as a little fox kit, had an easyish time crawling after Lewis, though he wasn’t quite as fast. They went up and down and around and round. Many times Bobbie thought he would lose Lewis, but he kept up! How much fun he did have. And although Lewis was a prickled pear, he always knew how and when to slow down or to explain a structure, and in return Bobbie listened to all of Lewis’ rants and spirals.
A quarter past six, when Bobbie returned—with dirt on his nose and a berry tucked behind one ear—he flopped beside Chris and sighed happily.
“Lewis showed me where the strawberries grow. The biggest ones. He even let me keep one.”
Chris leaned down, brushing a berry leaf out of Bobbie’s fur. “He likes you, then.”
From somewhere underground, a voice called up, “No, I don’t!”
And they both just laughed together, sharing a delicious bite sized Cannoli.
Chap.4 The Dragonfly and the Lily Pond
The sun was high, warm and golden, and the garden buzzed with quiet life. Bees hummed between lavender stalks. A snail crossed the cobblestone path. Bobbie was lying in the grass, watching a ladybug crawl across his paw, when a shimmer of color zipped past his nose, and a gleam of green shined in his eye.
“Did you see that?” he gasped.
“Ah,” said Chris with a knowing smile. “That’s Sam.”
In a blink, she was back—whirling and twirling, her wings catching the sunlight in glints of emerald, violet, and glassy gold.
“Oh! Oh my!” she trilled, zipping in tight circles around Bobbie’s ears. “A new friend? A new face? Look at those ears! Those darling, fuzzy ears!”
Bobbie giggled, trying to follow her blur. “You’re so fast!”
“I have to be fast!” Sam chirped, darting between buttercups and back. “There’s too much to see and never enough time to dawdle! Ohhh, what a fluffball you are! Have you seen the lily pond yet? You must! You must! Come!”
She zoomed away, then zipped back.
“Well? Are you coming?”
Chris gave Bobbie a nudge. “Go on. She’s a bit dizzying, but she’s sweeter than a pot of honey.”
So Bobbie bounded after her, running ducking under fern fronds and over mossy stones, past tree after tree, and over the fence, past all the fruits and even the vegetables, this was the farthest Bobbie had gone! Until they came to a quiet, hidden nook near the edge of the garden, and Sam spun in tight circles over a water hyacinth.
And nestled in tall reeds and guarded by sleepy frogs, was a pond so still it mirrored the sky, with duckweed covering a good percent of it.
“Ta-da!” Sam declared, hovering just above the water’s surface. “My favorite place.”
Bobbie padded up to the edge, wide-eyed. “It’s beautiful.”
Sam landed gently on a lily pad, her wings still glittering in the sun. For once, she wasn’t zipping or spinning.
“You know,” she said softly, “sometimes I sit here when the sun’s low and hope someone will notice how my wings glow in the light.”
Bobbie sat beside her. “Why?”
Sam blinked, her big eyes going round. “Well because I think they’re rather neat, what do you think?”
He nodded. “They’re like… little rainbows.”
Sam let out a fluttery sigh and tucked her wings around her like a shawl. “That’s very kind. You’re a very good little fox.”
“I’m going for the best but that will do,” Bobbie said, curling his tail around his paws.
They sat like that for a long time—Sam shimmering in the light, Bobbie quiet and still—and the pond reflecting everything above. Soon Bobbie felt the sun’s warmth lolling him into a slumber, and he let himself drift off, the soft hum of Sam’s stationary wings acting as a white noise. He was fast asleep by the time the sun was set, and Sam couldn’t help but watch him breathe in and out. ‘What a cute fox’ she thought. Soon, she knew he had to head back to the clover hill, with Chris, but oh bother, how could she wake him? She gathered up all her strength and started zipping and zapping all around Bobbie, and eventually, he opened his eyes, humming and mumbling and grumbling.
Bobbie got up and returned after the proper farwell to Sam and the many frogs. Back at the clover hill, Chris looked up as Bobbie returned, a bit damp and smiling lazily.
“Well?”
Bobbie flopped beside him. “Her wings really do sparkle.”
Chris chuckled. “Thought you’d say that.”
Somewhere far off, a delighted squeal echoed through the garden:
“He liked my wings!!”
Bobbie smiled sleepily. “She’s my favorite.”
And from the rushes, Sam whispered to the frogs, “I told you I sparkle.”
Chp. 5 The Sparrow in the Ivy
There was a ruckus in the ivy.
A fluttering, flapping, flustering fuss, like a feather duster caught in a whirlwind. Bobbie looked up just in time to see a small brown bird tumble out of the vines and land with a startled chirp! in a tangle of clover.
Chris didn’t even blink. “Ah. That’ll be Peter.”
The little bird sat upright, wings askew and chest puffing like a bellow’s. “They’re coming!” he squeaked. “The small humans! I saw them! One of them had a stick!”
Chris tilted his head. “Was it a stick, or a popsicle?”
Peter paused, eyes wide. “…Possibly both?”
Bobbie padded over, curious. “What’s a popsicle?”
Peter leapt three inches in the air. “A talking fox!” he squawked, then flopped back down in the grass. “Oh… wait. Right. We all do that.”
Bobbie blinked. “Are you always this scared?”
Peter straightened his feathers indignantly. “I’m not scared! I’m smart, and prepared. You don’t survive long in a garden this close to children unless you’re alert at all times!”
Chris chuckled. “Peter’s got a keen eye for danger. Bit too keen, if you ask me.”
“I saw a dog once,” Peter muttered. “A giant. Barked like thunder. Probably four hundred beaks tall. It looked at me.”
Bobbie tilted his head. “What did you do?”
Peter shivered. “Fainted. Right into the thyme bush. Lixie was not happy.”
Bobbie tried very hard not to laugh—but a snort escaped, and then he was giggling. To his surprise, Peter giggled too, a little chirpy sound like popcorn popping.
“I am a bit silly sometimes,” Peter admitted. “But I know every shadow in this garden. If anything sneaks in—cat, child, squirrel—I’m the first to spot it.”
“And the first to scream,” Chris added fondly.
Peter looked smug. “Exactly.”
Bobbie flopped beside him in the grass. “Well, if you ever get too scared, I’ll defend you.”
Peter blinked. “Really?”
Bobbie nodded. “You can warn me, and I’ll chase the bad things away.”
Peter beamed. “That’s a very good plan. Except… if it’s the dog again, I may still faint.”
“That’s okay,” Bobbie said. “I’ll drag you to safety.”
As Peter and Bobbie continued to chirp and yip all together, they devised plans of protection for themselves and everyone else at the pond. Eventually, Bobbie asked the bird if he knew who owned the house, and so Peter went on and on about the woman who moved in just that year, and the three snot-nosed children she brought with her. And Bobbie could see that Peter’s frantic nature was a tad… forced. It was obvious Peter was less of a worrywart and more of an actor.
Chris, watching the two of them chatter theatrically in the open end of the clover field, shook his head.
“From dragonflies to moles to birds with the jitters,” he whispered to a passing butterfly named Gabriela, “Bobbie seems to get it on well with the whole garden!”
Bobbie had decided he was ready for another nap, and asked Peter to talk to him again. And Chris heard the ivy rustling gently in the breeze—though whether it was actually the wind or Peter scrambling back into hiding, no one could quite say for sure
Chp.6 Lixie and Her Thistle-Bristle Brushed Bushes
It was evening in the garden.
The shadows grew long, the worker bees were finishing their final rounds, and the air smelled sweet—like moss, honey, and something else. Something bright and sharp. Something green.
Bobbie followed the scent through the tall grass until he came upon a round little cottage tucked into the tall grasses surrounding a tree, its roof woven from soft petals and twigs. Outside the door was what looked like the end of the many, perfect thyme bushes that surrounded the garden’s southwest side.
And humming gently just beyond them was Lixie. She was round and golden, with delicate wings like pressed lace and a soft fuzz that shimmered when the light hit just right. A tiny straw sunhat with a thyme leaf perched between her antennae. She was humming a low song to her plants.
“Hello?” Bobbie said, his nose twitching.
Lixie turned slowly, one paw still brushing a sprig of thyme. “Oh,” she said, her voice like warm tea. “It’s you. The fox kit.”
“I’m Bobbie.”
“I know,” she said simply. “Chris told me. He said you’ve been very gentle with the garden.”
Bobbie peered around her at the little bushes. “What are those?”
Lixie’s eyes lit up. “These,” she said, patting a particularly plump patch, “are my thyme bushes. The finest in the whole garden.”
“They smell really nice.”
“They do. And they’re clever plants. Resilient. They grow low and strong and aren’t afraid of the wind.” She leaned down to sniff them. “They’re my most precious thing.”
Bobbie padded closer. “More precious than your honey?”
Lixie smiled softly. “Honey is sweet. But thyme is… steady. It’s quiet but can still complain with its leaves. The others think I’m scary because I hum low and I sting lower. But the thyme knows better. It grows because I love it.”
Bobbie looked at his paws, a little unsure. “Are you sure?”
Lixie tilted her head. “Do you think I am?”
He thought about it. “You look sure. And your voice makes me sleepy.”
She chuckled—a low, buzzing sound that made the thyme tremble. “Then I suppose you do.”
Bobbie lay down beside the patch, careful not to squish anything. “Can I help you take care of them?”
Lixie hesitated. Then, gently, she placed a thistle-bristle brush in his muzzle. “Very softly,” she said, guiding his paw. “We brush them to keep the dew away.”
And so they worked together in the twilight, brushing the tiny thyme bushes while the crickets began to sing. It was tedious work, but it was worth it to see how lush and beautiful the thyme bushes looked afterwards. And them not smelling like mildew and rot was another plus.
“You know,” Lixie murmured, after a while, “I don’t mind if the others stay away. It’s peaceful here. But I’m glad you came.”
Bobbie smiled. “I’m glad you let me.”
As night fell and the stars blinked awake, Lixie pulled out a jar of clover tea and poured it into a leaf-cup just for him, the first time she had ever shared her free time with another critter, how peculiar.
They drank in silence, with Lixie resting on Bobbie’s warm, fuzzy head. The thyme covering the foxling’s nose in green perfume.
Chp.7 Sky and the Tree Swing
In the quietest corner of the garden, a wooden swing hung from the willow’s lowest branch, swaying gently in the breeze. Bobbie had seen it many times but never stopped—until tonight, when the light was soft and the air smelled of evening.
Perched on the swing was a small bird, a little bigger than Peter, but smaller than Rhino, cloaked in feathers of warm browns, streaked with gentle bands of chestnut and tan. One wing drooped awkwardly, feathers ruffled and bent as if shaped by a storm’s rough hands. He looked up as Bobbie approached, a shy smile in his quiet eyes.
“Hello there,” he said, voice soft as a sigh. “Didn’t expect to have company tonight.”
“I’m Bobbie,” said the fox kit.
“Sky,” the bird replied. “Nice to meet you.”
“Sky? Well yes it’s up there, may I ask what your name is?”
“My name is Sky, Bobbie!” the bird chirped in flustered anger and flapped his wing.
“Oh… well that makes sense then!” Bobbie’s eyes drifted downwards. He noticed the bent wing. “Did something happen to your wing?”
Sky gave a small shrug, then looked up toward the first twinkling stars. “Yeah. A storm came through and changed things. I can’t fly like I used to anymore.”
Bobbie’s ears perked. “Do you miss flying?”
Sky’s eyes softened, a faraway look slipping in. “I miss the stars the most. I used to soar high and see them close—so close they felt like I could reach out and touch them.” He paused, watching the night deepen. “Now, I watch from here. It’s not the same, but it’s still… enough.”
Bobbie’s tail curled around his paws. “I think my mom is in those stars.”
Sky nodded, a hopeful smile flickering. “Then maybe, one day, I’ll find a way back up there and find her for you. Until then, I just keep my eyes on them, to make sure they don’t fall down.”
Bobbie settled into the moss beneath the swing, feeling the calm night wrap around him like a soft blanket. “We wouldn’t want that.” and he was out, sleeping to the swaying swing and the creaky branch and Sky counting the stars, to make sure they are all still up there, of course.
Above, Sky folded his wings back up into themselves, his gaze fixed on the sparkling sky, looking for a momma fox without her baby.
Chp. 8 Whiskers: Peter & Rhino
“I’ve always said: if you live long enough under a rose hedge, you’ll see just about everything. A fox sleeping in the thyme patch. A mole waltzing with a daisy stem. And now, a love story between a catbird and a house sparrow.
Yes, a love story. You didn’t mishear me.
It all started one morning when Rhino returned from trying—again—to sit with the window cats. They looked thoroughly flustered, feathers a mess, voice muttering something about “next time I’ll bring ribbon…”
Peter, who had been peeking from the ivy wall, burst out. “You could’ve been eaten! They have paws! And teeth like—like—STAPLES!” He promptly tripped on a vine and face-planted into a marigold. Rhino flapped over with soft, stammering worry. “Oh no—are you okay? That marigold looked aggressive—”
I watched from a distance, as they both chatted away with each other about the scary cats and the even scarier flower. That was the beginning. Rhino started leaving little trinkets near Peter’s ivy. A pebble shaped like a heart. A lost blue thread. A crumpled honeysuckle blossom.
Peter never said a word, but I saw him stash every gift in the crook of his nest like it was treasure. Every now and then, Rhino would walk past the ivy wall and hum a tune, not looking in. Peter would stick his head out, squeak “You’re off-key!” and dart back inside.
If you ask me, that was Sparrow for “I love you.”
The turning point came with a storm. The kind that rattles roots and sends petals flying. Peter, poor thing, got caught out too far from the ivy and panicked. He flapped toward the tree swing but was losing ground fast.
Rhino, seeing him struggle, launched without hesitation. They soared into the wind, wings cutting through rain, and swept in beside him. I could barely see them through the mist—but I could hear them.
“It’s okay! I’ve got you. We’re flying together now!”
Together, they made it to Sky’s old swing, soaked but safe. And though Peter shivered for a long time afterward, he leaned into Rhino’s feathers.
Rhino went quiet for a moment. Then said almost inaudibly, "you're too much of a scaredy-cat to be out in this storm, Petey.”
Peter flinched when Rhino brushed feathers with them, but always smiled after. Rhino began landing closer to the ivy they used to fear landing in. And one day—when the sun was the color of ripe apricots—I caught them dancing. Peter hopped along the garden stones, and Rhino swooped slow spirals above him, keeping time with his steps. Now, when night settles in, they sit together on the swing, and sometimes Sky is there too.
It’s corny, I know. But I’m old. I’ve seen too many sunrises not to recognize sparks when I see them.
And in this garden, with its brambles and burrows and bumblebee bushes, sometimes the gentlest loves are the ones that flap awkwardly. Or squeak too loud when surprised or scared.
And I, Chris the field mouse, am lucky enough to call them both my friends.”
“What a wonderful story.” Bobbie yawned.
“Goodnight, sweet foxling.”
Chp.9 Through My Whiskers: Lixie and Sam
“Clovers, I’ve learned, bloom on more than just sunlight and soil, they also need the rain that always follows my dearest friend Lixie. It’s as though she is always drenched, and something you learn quickly here, is Sam loves a good puddle of water.
One day both Sam and Lixie came flutter-buzzing into each other—and I, humble Chris, had a front-row burrow.
Sam arrived on a breeze of midsummer, wings flashing stained-glass colors none of us had names for. Dragonflies were supposed to dazzle—yet the moment she landed, she folded her wings like laundry and sighed as if they were second-rate doilies. Of course, as the self-proclaimed head of the welcoming committee, I immediately went to her.
“Your wings are beautiful, little Dragonfly, why do you hide them?”
“They wobble, and they are cloudy.” she fretted.
“They shine,” I corrected.
“They wobble crooked,” she insisted.
Sam circled the lily pond each day, trying to catch her reflection in the water. But a breeze would ruffle the surface, or a frog would plop, and she’d murmur, “Never mind, nothing special there.”
I could almost hear her self-confidence fluttering thinner than her wingtips.
Down in the clover lived Lixie—round, golden, and (if you believed rumors) armed with a stinger meaner than a hornets nest. Truth be told, she wouldn’t ever use it. Her true greatest weapon was perfectionism.
She raised thyme bushes the way jewellers cut diamonds: snip, hum, measure, hum, fret. If one sprig dared lean sideways, she would buzz all night, righting and re-righting it until dawn gilded every leaf.
“They must be exact,” she told me.
“They must be loved,” I told her.
“Same thing,” she replied—though her eyes said she wasn’t so sure.
Their first meeting? Pure accident. Sam tried one last grand swoop above the thyme to prove (to herself, not me) that her wings were worth a second glance. A rogue gust tipped her off balance; she crash-landed head-first into Lixie’s prized row.
Leaves scattered, stems bent, and Lixie gasped as though the sky had fallen.
Sam sprang up, mortified.
“I’m sorry—I’m awful—I ruin everything!”
She began to zip away, but Lixie blocked her path and let out a trembling sigh.
“Wait. Are you hurt?”
That surprised Sam enough to stay. Lixie’s jittery fussing over the crushed thyme and concern for the dragonfly whose wingtips now glimmered with specks of thyme pollen, looking—if you ask me—positively radiant.
Days passed. Lixie invited Sam to help while she repaired the damage. Sam hovered guiltily, then offered to fetch water droplets, or maybe to snag a treat from my windowsill, anything to help.
During those long afternoons, Sam confessed the truth: how she worried she was just an ugly bug with uglier wings, fearing no one would ever pause to admire her. Lixie listened, and her antennae drooped in empathy.
“They are beautiful,” Lixie said at last, voice small. “And they are yours, so you must also be beautiful, yes?”
The words surprised even her—enough that she dared leave one thyme sprig slightly tilted. I thought thunder would crack from the shock, but nothing fell apart. The garden, in fact, smelled sweeter for the loosened symmetry.
High summer brought a firefly carnival. Sam, newly bold, invited Lixie to watch from the pond’s edge. While green sparks danced above the water, Sam rotated her wings just so. Tiny motes of light clung to the transparent panes, turning them into shiny glass art.
Lixie gasped. “You outshine the stars.”
Sam laughed, a full belly laugh that made even the performing fireflies pause in awe.
Then Lixie did something unheard-of: she plucked the thyme blossom still askew and tucked it behind Sam’s wing hinge.
“For luck,” she said, though I swear it was a declaration
Late that season, I peeked into the thyme plot and nearly squeaked: half the bushes leaned at playful angles, as if dancing. Lixie buzzed among them, humming a looser tune. Nearby, Sam basked on a stone, wings drying after an enthusiastic (and definitely wobbly) loop-de-loop.
Lixie still cared for her thyme, but she let them be for everyone’s enjoyment, not hers alone.
Even Lewis the mole noticed. He tends to do that even though he pretends not to. He notices everything and everyone, keeps it all up in his frowny head.
(He promptly tunneled deeper, but I heard him humming.)