barnaby the badger pulled the quilt over his head.

his own words from the party echoed in the stuffy air of the burrow. he had tried to tell a joke. a hush had fallen over the otters' riverside picnic.

a very quiet knock came at his round door. barnaby stayed still. the knock came again, softer.

he opened it a sliver. pip the field mouse stood on the step, holding a dried sunflower head. pip waited.

barnaby opened the door wider and returned to his armchair. pip sat on the worn rug by the cold fireplace. he placed the sunflower head on the floorboards between them.

they listened together. the wind stirred the ferns outside the window. a beetle ticked somewhere in the walls.

barnaby rested his head against the back of the chair. the quiet was a soft blanket.

the shop went dark hours ago.

inside the carved wooden box, a tiny moth rested its wings against the worn velvet lining. shadows stretched from the silent gears and pins.

the air carried ancient wood, dust, and dry sweetness of forgotten perfume. below, through floorboards, came the city's muted tremor.

this small, dark chamber was its entire world, enclosed and safe. every grain of dust, every scent, was familiar comfort.