The Journey of the House Snail

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When autumn moved through the forest and the golden light hovered over the leaves, Miralda the snail's favorite time of year began. Her house was no ordinary snail shell—it was a real little home with windows, a door, and even a tiny chimney from which soft smoke rose on cool days. She called it the House in Step, because wherever she crawled, her home gently followed behind. Some called her the Wanderer's Keeper for this reason, others simply the House Snail, but Miralda herself liked both. She said that every house collected stories, and hers already carried many on its winding back. One morning, with the mist hanging between the trees and the leaves still glittering with dew, Miralda set out again. She had decided to walk the old path of the Falling Oak, where it was said that a river of light flowed. It was no ordinary river, but one that carried memories. Anyone who was reflected in its radiance could see the most beautiful moments of their life once again. Miralda, who loved collecting what others forgot, wanted to find this place. She crept slowly along the path, past ant cities and mushroom villages, small frog families that greeted her, and beetles that beckoned. A small lantern glowed in her cottage, and a warm light fell from the windows, illuminating the path ahead. Along the way, she hummed a song she had once heard from a wandering bumblebee. It sounded both distant and familiar. As the day drew to a close, she came to a fork in the path. The right path led deeper into the forest, the left up to a hill. At its top stood a stone, large and smooth, like the shell of an ancient animal. Miralda paused, listened to the rustling of the wind, and chose the hill. For she had learned that sometimes you could see better from above where your heart desired. The climb was long, and for a snail, a small eternity. But Miralda had time, and time was her friend. She took breaks, made herself some moss broth in her tiny kitchen, wrote notes in her travel journal, and watched the sky slowly turn from blue to amber. Finally, just before nightfall, she reached the summit. And there she saw it—the river of light. It snaked its way deep below through the forest, not made of water, but of shimmering memories that drifted like fireflies through the darkness. Miralda smiled silently. She knew she had reached her goal. She sat up there for a long time, until the stars began to shine above her, reflecting in the windows of her small house. Then she crawled a little closer to the edge, opened the door, and let the warmth of her home flow into the night. She took a tiny glass bottle from a shelf and gently caught one of the sparks of light. "For later," she murmured, "for days when the sky is gray."