Waldemar The Racoon and The Hatter's Squirrel in the Leaf Room

More about Waldemar The Racoon and The Hatter's Squirrel in the Leaf Room

Where a thought casts a shadow – and a hat catches it
It began with a rustling that didn't come from the wind. Waldemar pushed aside a vine and entered a room made of nothing but leaves. The walls: layered with maple, beech, and oak. The ceiling: a delicate canopy of fern and morning leaves. On the floor: soft moss, interwoven with roots that curled like script. Light fell through the foliage – golden, floating, as if strained through honey. In the midst of this silent wonderland, a creature that was not only old but also peculiar sat enthroned on a revolving root chair: a shaggy squirrel with a tape measure around its neck, several pins in its fur, and an expression of deep concentration. It held a half-finished hat in its paw – fashioned from translucent tree bark, with seams of cobweb and a tiny feather vibrating in slow motion. "Come closer if you dare," it said without looking up, "or leave if you stay." Waldemar approached the leaves, which didn't crack beneath his paws, but hummed. "You're the Hatter?" he asked. "I'm a collector of thoughts," replied the squirrel. "A hat carver. A dreamer who sews. And you're the one with the big head full of questions." It studied Waldemar as if measuring his forehead. "Sit down," it said. "But not too comfortably." A small branch chair grew out of the ground. Waldemar sat down. Above him, hats began to circle—one made of bird shadows, one made of old maps, one with a quartz flower on the side. Each whispered as it passed. Not in words—in feelings. "These hats aren't hats," the squirrel explained. "They're possibilities. Some show you what you could have been. Others, what you must never become." "And what happens if I choose the wrong one?" The squirrel chuckled dryly. "Then he will wear you, not you him." Waldemar felt one of the hats brush against his thoughts. A memory flickered—a lost path, a voice in the fog, a decision that had never quite settled. "Some thoughts are too heavy for a small head," murmured the squirrel, tossing him a particularly light hat. It was made of twilight and smelled of star anise. "This one," it said, "lies gently." "And that one?" asked Waldemar, pointing to a hat with a glass brim in which tiny clouds drifted. "It shows you who you would be when no one is looking." In the end, Waldemar chose the simplest one: moss green, with a band of night songs and a barely visible seam in the shape of a question. As he put it on, the room changed. The leaves became more transparent, space deeper, time softer. "This hat isn't finished," the squirrel said softly. "It grows with you. But be warned—it preserves not only thoughts, but also what you didn't think." Waldemar nodded. And as he stepped back into the greenery, he felt: He hadn't chosen the hat. The hat had called him.