Fern Hollow School
The late afternoon light slanted through the high arched windows of Fern Hollow School, brushing the rows of tiny desks in soft gold.
Dust motes drifted lazily in the warm beams, like tiny stars suspended in still air.
Headmistress Maribel Greenglade, a tall barn owl with speckled wings, stood at the front of the room, wings folded neatly before her.
She smiled — a wide, practiced thing — and addressed the little gathering of young badgers, squirrels, and hedgehogs fidgeting at their desks.
“You’ve all worked so hard this season,” she said, her voice soft as wool. “I do believe you’ve earned an early break today. Run along now, and enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.”
There was a brief, stunned silence — unexpected dismissal was rare at Fern Hollow.
Then the children bustled about in hushed flurries, gathering books and scarves, exchanging uneasy glances as they packed their satchels.
Maribel’s smile faltered, just for a moment.
She had hoped they wouldn’t notice.
Hoped they would laugh and chatter and tumble out into the lanes, as children ought.
But even the smallest hedgehog cub, dragging her satchel across the floorboards, glanced toward the curtained windows and shivered.
They felt it.
How could they not?
The school nurse, a soft-footed mole named Miss Tansy, approached from the side, wringing her paws in her apron.
“That was a good call you made,” she murmured, keeping her voice low as the last of the students filed out the door.
“Even if it’s nothing… well, it’s good for them to get a break now and again.”
Maribel turned to her, the small, sad smile never quite reaching her golden eyes.
“You and I both know,” she said quietly, “this isn’t ‘nothing’.”
Together, they walked to the grand front doors, the hollow tap of their footsteps swallowed quickly by the heavy silence outside.
Maribel waited until every child had disappeared down the winding path, their satchels bobbing, their heads bent low.
Then she reached up, turned the heavy brass key, and locked the schoolhouse doors with a low, final click.
The echoes of that sound seemed to ripple outward — across the fields, into the forest, into the waiting night.
She rested one feathered wing against the worn wood, whispering a prayer older than the school itself.
She wasn’t sure when — or if — she would open the doors again.
Behind her, Fern Hollow School sighed into silence.
And outside, the last of the fireflies blinked out.
