Mira and the Moon-Garden's Missing Note

There was once a little book — a very old one, with a cover the colour of deep water — that sat on the shelf of a music room. Inside the book, written in loopy silver ink, was a story. And the story went like this.

Far away, in a garden that slept all day and only woke when the full moon climbed high, there lived a young cellist named Mira. The moon-garden was full of flowers that glowed: pale blue bell-blossoms, silver ferns that rustled like whispers, and round white poppies that smelled of warm milk and honey. Mira loved it there. Every full moon, she carried her cello to the garden's centre, sat on the stone bench, and played.

But tonight, something was wrong.

There was one phrase in her piece — four notes that twisted together in a tricky little knot — and no matter how many times Mira played it, the notes came out all tangled. She felt a little worried. The moon-garden flowers needed music to bloom all the way; without it, the outermost ring of blossoms stayed closed, tight as small fists. Mira could see them, pale and shut, at the edge of the light.

She tried the phrase again. Tangled. Again. Still tangled.

"You are frowning at your bow," said a voice.

Mira looked up. Sitting on a mossy stone nearby was a large toad named Orben, the colour of old bark, with golden eyes that caught the moonlight. He wore a tiny waistcoat the colour of moss and carried a lantern no bigger than a walnut.

"I was not talking to you," said Mira, though not unkindly.

"No," agreed Orben. "But I was talking to you. I have sat in this garden for eleven full moons. I know that phrase. Would you like me to hum it?"

Mira opened her mouth to say no. She wanted to do it herself. She looked at the closed blossoms at the garden's edge, all shut and waiting. She looked at her bow. She took a breath.

"All right," she said quietly. "Please."

Orben hummed. It was a low, rolling hum, warm as a hearthstone. Mira listened with her whole body. Then, very slowly, she drew her bow across the strings.

The four notes came out clear. Not tangled at all.

She played them again. Clear again. She felt something loosen in her chest, like a knot slipping free.

She played the whole phrase, then the whole piece, and the music moved through the garden like wind through tall grass. One by one, the outermost blossoms opened — slowly, the way flowers do, as if they had all the time in the world.

When the last note faded, Mira looked at Orben. He was polishing his little lantern with a corner of his waistcoat, as if he had simply been waiting for something pleasant to happen.

"Thank you," she said.

"Same time next moon," said Orben, and hopped back onto his mossy stone.

And that was where the story in the little book ended — right there, with the moon-garden in full bloom, and two unlikely friends sitting quietly in the silver light.