When Elsie first saw the mice marching from beneath the stairs, she blamed hunger, fever, or grandmother's stories. Five tiny travelers carried cases, bundles, and impossible dignity across the floorboards.
She followed them quietly, past the kitchen light, past her mother's humming, until the smallest mouse paused beside a painted door no taller than her hand. It bowed, opened the latch, and warm firelight spilled across her toes. Elsie looked back once, then stepped through, leaving childhood waiting on the other side for whoever still believed magic required permission, and home required something braver than belief, alone in winter's silence.
Comments
Be the first to comment.