Every evening, just as the last blackbird finished its song, a golden light appeared beneath the roots of the old oak. Nobody in the woodland knew who lit it—until the night it went dark.
A little field mouse stopped on the stepping-stone path. She carried a fallen feather, which she had meant to leave by the door. Instead, she knocked.
“Come in,” said a voice as soft as turning leaves.
Inside Bracken Cottage, a fairy sat beside a cold lantern. “I have run out of stories,” she explained. “This light is lit by the telling of them.”
The mouse thought for a moment. Then she told the fairy about the enormous puddle she had crossed that morning, using a curled leaf for a boat. A small spark appeared in the lantern.
A robin came next, with a story about a ribbon caught in a thorn bush. A beetle told of the moon reflected in a dewdrop. With every small adventure, the flame grew brighter.
By the time the stars came out, the golden window shone again. And beside the little door hung a new sign:
There is no story too small to bring a little light.