Squirrel and Rabbit Get Lost in the Library

By Peter Bowden

In the golden hush of a late afternoon, the library stood like a ship moored in time, its doors parting with a sigh as Squirrel and Rabbit tiptoed inside. The scent of old paper, leather, and a thousand whispered secrets wrapped around them like ivy. “It’s bigger on the inside,” said Rabbit, wide-eyed. Squirrel darted ahead, tail twitching with delight, hopping from table to table, whispering titles like they were spells: The Clockmaker’s Son, Tales from the Rain-Soaked Forest, How to Read the Wind.

Somewhere between the biographies and the oversized atlases, they lost each other. Rabbit searched through aisles that felt like hedgerows, each step echoing like a heartbeat. He called out softly—Squirrel?—but only the flutter of pages replied. Meanwhile, Squirrel curled up beneath a skylight in the Poetry section, reading aloud to no one, his voice rising like music into the rafters. Stories wrapped around him like warm quilts, and time, as it does in all true libraries, paused politely at the door.

They found each other again at twilight, near a book about maps that never stayed the same. “We’ve been here forever,” Rabbit said, smiling. “Or maybe just long enough,” Squirrel answered, brushing ink-dust from her whiskers. As they left, the librarian, who may have been a fox or a spirit or both, gave them each a slip of paper: Return any time. Quietly. And the doors sighed closed behind them, keeping the stories safe, waiting for their next return. 

Comments

Anonymous said…
Love it! I can see those critters!
May 27, 2025 at 3:07 PM

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