Thumbelina and the Mouse Under the Ground

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Autumn laid its delicate, cool fingers over the field, and the colors became muted like voices behind a door. Thumbelina was tired of long walks and even longer silence. She found refuge beneath a stalk whose root arched like a protective hand. When a gust of wind suddenly blew sand over her, she groped for support—and felt a rush of air flowing from the ground. A crack gaped between two roots, from which a warm scent escaped: nuts, earth, dried herbs. Thumbelina bent down. "Hello?" she called, her voice a mere thread of dust in the evening. Two shiny dots appeared in the darkness, then a small mouth, a purr. "Who sends me such a delicate visit?" A field mouse stepped forward, its eyes kind, its belly round like a granary. "Come, child, you're freezing out here. I'll give you crumbs and warmth." Thumbelina hesitated, then slipped through the gap and followed the mouse into a passage that sloped gently downhill. The walls were lined with roots that ran like the veins of a sleeping giant; bunches of herbs hung from thorn hooks, and a nutshell held a wick lamp whose flame whispered. The mouse's room was smaller than a thimble and yet large enough to keep out the cold outside. On the small table made of bark pieces stood bowls of millet, berries, and two grains of salt. "Eat," said the mouse, "and warm your hands." Thumbelina did both, and it was as if every crumb patched her up a little. The mouse hummed, cleaned up, talked about the weather rumbling in the passages, about an owl that had recently been flying too low. Thumbelina smiled, grateful for the rustling of this voice that didn't mock and demanded nothing—for now. Days passed, outside the frost seeped into the stalks, and inside, order became a habit. Every morning, Thumbelina carried out the empty shells, arranged new pieces of bark, and wove rugs for the ground from blades of grass. She sang as she worked, and the mouse listened with half-closed eyes. "You're making it pretty here," she said. "I like it. And because I like it, you shall stay until winter is over." Thumbelina nodded, happy yet touched by a restlessness she couldn't name. One evening, a visitor came: a mole, as big as a mountain by Thumbelina's standards, wrapped in a coat of velvety black fur. He wore the darkness like a title. "I've widened the tunnels," he grumbled. "Winter will be hard. One needs order." The mouse nodded eagerly. "Mr. Mole is a distinguished neighbor, very capable. He likes music. Sing him something, child." Thumbelina sang, softly, a song of warm windows and the smell of bread. The Mole paused. "Beautiful," he said after a while, the word heavy in his throat, "beautiful and useful. One who sings makes the tunnels easier." When he had gone, the mouse laid a paw on Thumbelina's hand. "He is alone," she said, "and he appreciates quality.