Timble Taps and the Lost Chapter

More about Timble Taps and the Lost Chapter

Between the half-ruined walls of an old garden, where time whispers through blossoms and the light spreads like warm honey through ivy tendrils, sat a mouse in a top hat, folds of a red scarf, and a book on its knees. His name was Timble Taps, and those who knew him knew that when he read, even the wind stopped to listen. Timble was no ordinary reader. He was a keeper of stories—one who collects lost chapters, retrieves forgotten lines, and writes down thoughts before they slip away again. In his small library deep beneath the mound of roots, he kept words that no one needed anymore—and that was precisely why they were so precious. One dewy morning, however, something happened that surprised even Timble. A single page of a book sailed through the air like an autumn leaf. It landed gently on his knee, as if it had been searching for him. The paper was old, with shimmering gold edges, and on it, in delicate ink, was written: "The Chapter That Was Never Written." Timble blinked. Was there such a thing? A chapter that existed before it was told? He opened his travel journal, noted the time, place, direction of the wind, and the color of the morning sun, then sat up and tightened his little boots. "When a chapter goes astray," he murmured, "someone has to bring it back." He followed the trail of words—invisible to most, but to Timble they were like footprints in the dew. Through overgrown gardens he wandered, over mossy steps, past yew trees humming in verse. Sometimes a bush rustled in rhyme, sometimes an old mailbox chattered in half-sentences. On the third evening, he reached the winding path of a rose garden, where the flowers lingered in half-bloom—as if waiting for the end of a sentence. There it stood: a small wooden door in the arch of a ruin, with delicate engravings and a tiny sign: "Here stories end, to begin again." Timble knocked three times—as the rule of old storytellers demanded. Nothing happened. Then the door opened soundlessly, and a sweet scent of ink and forgotten time wafted towards him. He entered. Inside, it was silent, as only books can be silent. A single desk stood in the room. On it, a book with blank pages. No cover, no title—but it vibrated as if it knew something was about to happen. Timble placed the lost page inside. A faint glow emanated from the paper. The pages began to fill themselves—not with someone else's ink, but with what Timble had collected all these years: little remarks by the side of the path, dreams whispered in his sleep, half-finished stories of hedgehogs chasing stars and dragonflies writing letters. When the last line was written, the book gently closed. A faint wave of applause flickered through the air—not loud, but like the echo of a happy thought.