Waldemar and Mollie at the Cozy Autumn Bus Stop

More about Waldemar and Mollie at the Cozy Autumn Bus Stop

The sun was still low as Waldemar trotted along the path with leisurely steps. His large brown backpack rocked heavily on his back, and his red hat sat askew on his ears. He'd been walking for a while when he spotted a bus stop at the edge of a small village square—a bench beneath a crooked sign, next to it a rusty trash can filled with dry leaves. Someone was sitting on the bench. Dark fur peeked out from under a pair of rolled-up jeans, suspenders holding the whole thing together. Sunglasses covered his eyes, though the light was still barely glaring, and next to him lay a small backpack, neatly zipped up. Waldemar recognized him immediately: Mollie, the mole in human form, who had already traveled many a winding path. "Well, if it isn't Waldemar!" Mollie called, her sunglasses flashing. "Come on, sit down. The bus's taking its time, as always." Waldemar plopped down on the bench, his boots sending up clouds of dust. "I didn't know you found your way back here. Where are you going?" Mollie grinned mysteriously and adjusted her glasses. "Nowhere, actually. But you know, I just got back from San Francisco. And I thought a bit of waiting at the bus stop would fit in well with what I've been experiencing." "San... what?" asked Waldemar, his ears pricked. "San Francisco," repeated Mollie, drawing out the words as if they were an adventure in themselves. "A city built on hills, with bridges that span the sea like red arches. There, the trams still run on tracks that squeak like old accordions, and everywhere it smells of salt and coffee." Waldemar giggled, the image still boggling. "And you just went there? With a backpack and sunglasses?" "Of course," said Mollie. "I was sitting on a bench in Chinatown, between red lanterns and steaming food stalls. An old man stood next to me, playing a two-stringed violin, and I swear to you: the melody reminded me of the tunnels of my childhood. As if the earth itself were singing." Waldemar listened, spellbound. Usually, he was the one with stories of paths through forests and mountains, but here sat Mollie, the mole, painting entire pictures of a city across the ocean with words. "And do you know what the most beautiful thing was?" Mollie leaned forward, her suspenders creaking softly. "The Golden Gate Bridge in the morning mist. It's like standing on the edge of another world. Everything is swallowed up by the gray, and then a piece of red flashes through, like a memory you'd almost lost."