Tavik, the Little Apple Thief

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The rain fell in fine, glassy threads onto the narrow streets of the city, where the pavement gleamed like polished brass in the lamplight. Between the shadows of the houses sat Tavik, a small green fellow with thin wings, large ears, and eyes that held the light like two drops of amber. He had drawn his knees up to his chest and protected his wings with his hands, while half a dozen green apples lay around him. The scent of their peels mingled with the wet smell of stone and rainwood. Tavik loved that smell—it was the only thing that reminded him of home. Once, he had lived under the roof of an old woman who dried apple pieces for him and told stories, until one night the wind spoke alone through the window. Since then, he had been gone, a small wanderer, stealing what reminded him of comfort.People called him the Apple Thief, whispering about him like a goblin creature that raids baskets at night. But Tavik didn't steal out of malice, but because every bite gave him a piece of memory. Today, however, the rain had swept the markets clean, and he crouched hungry in the alley where the lanterns dripped, losing their warmth. In the distance, metal clanged – the merchant Jorren was packing his baskets. Tavik waited until the light in his shop dimmed, then crept closer, light on his feet as a shadow. The back door was open a crack, and inside, apples glowed in baskets as if they had caught the sunlight. Tavik entered, his wings trembling with anticipation, and he chose not a flawless apple, but one with a small scar in the skin. He smelled it, sighed – and then he heard the voice. "Why always apples?" Jorren stood in the doorway, arms crossed, but his voice was calm, almost curious. Tavik crouched down, holding the apple tightly to his chest. "Because they taste like home," he whispered. The man looked at him for a long time, and in that look there was something Tavik didn't understand—not anger, but rather a remnant of kindness that the world hadn't quite forgotten yet. Finally, Jorren nodded and said, "You may keep it. But if you love them so much—make sure there are more." Then he placed a small linen sack heavy with apple seeds in front of him. "Plant them. Where the rain starts." From that evening on, Tavik's life changed. He wandered through the alleys, digging small holes in the earth between the stones, behind wells, and along the walls. With his slender claws, he planted the seeds, covered them with moss, and sang softly, as if speaking to the earth itself. Cats watched him, sparrows tossed him strings, and sometimes Jorren secretly placed an apple on the threshold of his shop—as thanks, or as encouragement. The little apple thief became a silent gardener, and the city began to breathe differently. With summer came the first green.