Dewdrop Post
The little bell above the door of Dewdrop Post jingled twice as Mr. Thimbleton bustled out, arms full of satchels, pouches, and a particularly stubborn letter that insisted on sliding free every few steps.
“Now, now,” he chuckled to no one in particular, tucking it carefully beneath his vest, “no running off today. Important messages to deliver, important indeed!”
The morning had slipped away faster than usual — odd, for Mr. Thimbleton, who prided himself on keeping a clockwork schedule. But no matter. A sunny smile and a swift paw could fix any delay.
The little fieldmouse set off down the winding path, whistling a high, reedy tune between his teeth.
First stop: Cloverpatch Cottage.
He knocked politely — once, twice, three times.
No answer.
Mr. Thimbleton frowned faintly but stuffed the letter carefully into the box by the door.
“Perhaps they’re out gathering berries,” he said brightly. “Yes, that must be it.”
He moved on.
Second house.
Third.
Fourth.
Each one greeted him with silence, shutters drawn tight, no friendly faces peeking through curtains.
Mr. Thimbleton’s whistle faltered and fell away altogether.
It wasn’t unheard of, of course — a rainy day, a sudden cold snap, a bad harvest — those could empty the lanes before you could blink.
But today the sun shone clear and cold overhead.
And there hadn’t been a day quite like this since…
Well.
He shook the thought away.
Adjusting the strap across his chest, he pressed on.
He passed the empty Mossy Market stall without looking at it.
Passed Penny Butterleaf’s bakery, where not even the scent of fresh bread lingered in the air.
At the bend near Lantern Library, he stopped short.
For just a heartbeat — only a blink — he thought he saw something move in the treeline.
Not a squirrel.
Not a fox.
Something taller.
Something wrong.
Mr. Thimbleton’s paw trembled, scattering a handful of letters into the dirt.
He stared into the trees, breath caught tight in his chest.
Nothing stirred.
No birdsong.
No crickets.
Only the long, slow pulse of fireflies drawing away from the woods in a shivering ripple.
The fieldmouse gathered up the letters with fumbling paws, stuffing them any which way into his bag.
Tomorrow would be soon enough for deliveries.
Yes.
Tomorrow.
He turned, walking briskly at first, then faster — satchel bouncing against his side — until the friendly painted door of Dewdrop Post swung shut behind him.
And though he locked it tight, and though he shuttered the windows, Mr. Thimbleton still sat up late into the night,
listening to the forest breathe.
