The Button Keeper

More about The Button Keeper

Some swear that every button a person loses lives on somewhere. Not in drawers or boxes, but in a forest, hidden deep where no one goes voluntarily. That's where the Button Keeper lives. He was small, barely taller than a child, with skin as green as young fern and ears that trembled like sails in the wind. His hair stood wildly from his head, white as cobwebs in the morning dew. And on his vest glittered buttons of all colors and shapes—shiny pieces of mother-of-pearl, plain wooden discs, ornate metals, colorful glass eyes. Every button was a story, and each told of someone who had once worn it. That evening, the Button Keeper sat between the roots of an ancient oak tree. In front of him lay a small tin box, beside it an open book, its pages already half-devoured by moss. He sighed, counted the buttons on his chest, and listened to the voices within. For the buttons spoke. They whispered of parties and farewells, of working in the fields, of children's hands plucking at jackets. Some laughed, some cried. And the Button Keeper listened, collected, preserved. That was his job—he was the keeper of what others lost. But tonight something was different. A button was missing. He noticed it immediately as he scanned the rows. There was a gap between a red enamel button and an old, scratched horn button. He frowned. "Impossible," he muttered. Buttons didn't disappear. Not here, not under his care. Determined, he set off. His bare feet crept across the soft moss as the forest shadows gave way to him. He followed a barely visible shimmer, like a trail of memory that only he could see. The trail led him deeper, to a clearing where a still pool lay. The water was black as glass, and something round glimmered on the shore. He hurried over and bent down—surely, the missing button! An inconspicuous, brown wooden button that nevertheless contained a voice. Just as he was about to reach for it, the water rippled. A shadowy hand shot out, grabbed the button, and pulled it into the depths. The Button Guardian stumbled back, heart and buttons rattling against his chest. "Who dares?" he cried, his voice bright and angry. From the water rose a figure, black as night, with eyes empty yet greedy. "Memories do not belong to you alone," it whispered. "They also nourish the forgotten." The Button Guardian clenched his fists. "You lie. Memories are meant to be preserved, not devoured." With a leap, he plunged forward. Small but nimble, he snatched the button from the shadow's hands. Immediately, the round piece of wood glowed warm in his fist, and a voice flickered—that of a girl who had once played by the lake, laughing, singing, living. The laughter cut through the night like a ray of light. The shadow hissed, writhed, and disintegrated into mist that vanished in the wind. The pond lay still, as if nothing had ever happened. Breathless, the button keeper tucked the wooden button back into his vest.