The morning began with a flutter of wings.
Oscar Underpaw, who had been stretched out on the sunny windowsill of Purrs & Pages, opened one amber eye just in time to see a barn owl swoop down and deposit a small, ornately wrapped package onto the shop counter. The owl gave a solemn hoot and flew off without waiting for acknowledgment.
Oscar hopped down, tail flicking. He rarely received packages. Mail was typically a human concern—things like bills, bulk tea deliveries, or postcards from places that weren’t nearly as cozy as Moonshadow. But this package was different. It was tied with silk cord, sealed with a faintly glowing glyph, and bore only a small tag:
For Oscar Underpaw. Unlock what you’ve left behind.
Oscar tilted his head. “That’s not ominous at all,” he muttered.
The Unopenable Box
Oscar swatted at the cord. It didn’t budge. He tried gnawing on it—no luck. Whiskerwise, his enchanted food bowl, rolled to the edge of the counter, peering down with mild disdain.
“What’s this?” the bowl asked, voice warm and grainy like an old storyteller. “Breakfast?”
“It’s for me,” Oscar said, giving the package a nudge. “But it won’t open.”
Whiskerwise sniffed. “Maybe it knows you’re not ready. Boxes are like onions—layers, secrets, and a high chance of tears if you get it wrong.”
Oscar ignored the philosophy and flipped the package over. The glyph shimmered faintly, rearranging itself. A slip of parchment appeared beside it, as if conjured from the air. On it, a riddle was scrawled:
To begin, seek the tale of borrowed time,
Where clocks once bent and bells did chime.
Oscar’s ears perked. That could only mean one place—the attic of the old clockmaker.
Stop 1: The Clockmaker’s Attic
The attic was just as Oscar remembered: full of ticking clocks and shafts of dusty sunlight. The old clockmaker looked up from his workbench and smiled. “Oscar Underpaw! I thought you’d be back one day.”
Oscar pawed at the parchment. “Something about borrowed time?”
The clockmaker reached into a drawer and pulled out a small brass gear strung on a bit of twine. “You gave time back when you returned the Lantern of Lost Hours. Take this—it’s a piece of that story.”
As Oscar tucked the gear into his collar fur, the package back at the shop pulsed faintly, as if aware of his progress.
Stop 2: Mr. Pindlewick
Rain-slicked puddles dotted the cobblestone streets as Oscar found Mr. Pindlewick perched on a fencepost, bowler hat slightly askew. The frog tipped his hat politely.
“You’ve come about the sky’s memory again, have you?” he croaked.
“Not exactly,” Oscar replied. “There’s a package. It says I’ve left something behind.”
“Ah,” Pindlewick said knowingly, as if that explained everything. He reached into his coat and produced a folded rain-slick page. On it was written:
The sky forgets,
But you remember.
“Add this to your story,” Pindlewick said, hopping down. “Some things only open to those who honor the past.”
Stop 3: The Skitter Gang
If Oscar was going to complete this riddle, he knew there was one more stop—though it pained him to admit it.
Big Cheddar and his band of mice were not known for generosity. But when Oscar appeared at the clocktower where they were sorting crumbs, the leader merely sighed. “We heard about your package,” Big Cheddar said. “We don’t like debts. You saved our tails, so here.”
One of the smaller mice handed over a crumpled scrap of paper with a pawprint drawn on it. “Yours,” she said. “We kept it for safekeeping.”
Oscar stared at the crude mark—it was, indeed, his pawprint, pressed in faint ink. A piece of him, returned.
Unlocking the Package
Back at Purrs & Pages, Oscar laid the brass gear, rain-slick page, and pawprint beside the package. The glyphs on the underside glowed brighter, aligning into a final pattern.
Whiskerwise cleared its throat. “Well? Are you going to open it, or are we staring at it until supper?”
Oscar took a breath. The parchment had reformed into one last line:
I remember what I’ve forgotten. I accept what I’ve left behind.
He spoke it aloud.
The silk string untied itself, the glow fading. The lid lifted without a sound.
The Gift
Inside the package was a single treat—perfect, warm, smelling faintly of catnip and honey. Beside it lay an enchanted bookmark, etched with Oscar’s pawprint and a small phrase:
“Return when ready.”
At the bottom was a folded page. He unfolded it slowly and recognized his own handwriting, from a story he had once begun and abandoned.
Oscar sat for a long while, the shop quiet except for the gentle creak of shelves and the hum of memory.
That evening, as moonlight spilled across the counter, Oscar curled up with the bookmark and page beside him. He didn’t fully understand who had sent the package—or why—but he knew one thing:
Some stories are worth finishing. Even the ones you forget you started.
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