Moss and the Question in His Pocket

The workshop was warm.

It smelled of sawdust and old paint and just a little bit of sleep.

Moss the mouse stood at the door. His sister Tully stood beside him. They were very, very small.

"Ready?" said Tully.

"Ready," said Moss.

Inside, the broken toys waited on their shelves. A bear with a loose ear. A duck with no wheel. A clock that had forgotten its tick.

Moss had a question. He had carried it for weeks and weeks. It sat in his chest like a small, round stone.

He tiptoed past the bear. He tiptoed past the duck. He stopped in front of the clock.

"Hello," said Moss. He used his quiet voice.

The clock made a soft sound. Not a tick. Just a hum.

"I wanted to ask," said Moss. "Do you get lonely in here?"

The clock hummed again. Warm and slow.

Tully took Moss's paw. "I think that means no," she said.

Moss nodded. The stone in his chest went very, very still.

Outside, the sky was turning pink. Dawn was coming, soft and slow.

"We should go," said Tully.

"Yes," said Moss.

He gave the clock one last look. The clock gave a little hum back.

They crept home together, two small mice in the pink morning.

Moss's chest felt light. The question was gone. Something warm was there instead.