Pippin had left a note. Or rather, a scrap of lavender-scented parchment with a single phrase scratched in swooping feline script: "Gone questing. Don't follow unless you bring salmon jerky."
Laurel frowned at the note now pinned to the apothecary's counter by a polished river pebble—Pippin's preferred method of dispatch. It wasn't the first time the talking cat had wandered off. But usually, he did so with more flair and far less cryptic brevity.
A gust of early morning wind rustled the drying lavender above her head. It carried with it a faint smell of mint and mischief. Outside, the cobblestone lane shimmered under dew, the kind that made your shoes soggy within three steps. Rowan, munching an apple, squinted at the parchment and muttered around a bite, "Is that… supposed to be heroic?"
"Apparently," Laurel sighed. "Though I'm concerned he spelled 'questing' with two Es and a tiny paw print."
"Paw print adds gravitas," Rowan said solemnly.
Laurel tapped her fingers against the polished counter, trying to ignore the growing prick of unease at the base of her neck. Pippin was mischievous, yes—but never careless. Whisperwood had been acting strange lately. Spirits murmured more than usual. Herbs grew in odd clusters. And now her familiar had vanished into the forest alone.
"We're going after him," she said at last.
Rowan's eyes lit up. "Should I pack trail rations? The good kind?"
"No raisins," Laurel said, already tying a pouch of calming balm to her belt.
"Right. Rude to offer raisins to a missing cat."
Whisperwood loomed with its usual theatrical flair—shadow-dappled paths, moss that hummed in the quiet, and tree trunks wider than Bram's anvil table. Laurel stepped between two rune-marked oaks and felt the prickle of enchantment brush her shoulder like a greeting from an old friend. The air smelled of damp bark and thyme.
Rowan, less reverent, waved a stick like a sword. "Do you think Pippin's on an actual quest? Like… riddle-challenging, treasure-hunting, crown-of-the-ancient-squirrel-king type of thing?"
"If it involves riddles, he'll cheat," Laurel murmured, eyes scanning the underbrush. "And he's banned from crown-wearing after the Midwinter Incident."
They followed the faintest trail—small disturbances in moss, pawprints that glowed faintly with residual charm. Spirits stirred in the canopy above: glimpses of brown fur, soft green eyes blinking curiously. Laurel murmured greetings, offered a sprig of lemon balm to a moss brownie, and in return received a lazy gesture toward a narrow path twisting deeper into the woods.
"He really came this way," Rowan whispered.
"Of course he did," Laurel said. "It's just dramatic enough."
They rounded a bend and stopped short. There, curled atop a stone outcrop covered in bioluminescent lichen, sat Pippin—tail swishing, eyes closed, perfectly still.
Laurel opened her mouth to scold him.
Then she noticed the ghost.
A faint, shimmering outline of a small boy hovered beside the cat, one translucent hand resting on Pippin's back. The ghost's eyes were shut, lips parted in silent sleep.
Rowan gasped. Pippin opened one eye. "Took you long enough," he muttered. "He wouldn't rest without a warm presence. I volunteered."
Laurel crouched beside the stone and studied the boy's faint outline. He was no more than seven or eight, hair tousled as though windblown, clothes a blurred suggestion of a village child's tunic. "How long has he been here?" she whispered.
Pippin stretched luxuriously. "Three nights, give or take. Lost spirit. Didn't want to leave the forest, afraid he'd forget something important."
Rowan stepped back, clutching the spirit-sensing charm Laurel had made from rose quartz and whisperleaf. "Can we… help him remember?"
"I suspect he never truly forgot," Laurel murmured. "Just got tangled in the echoes."
From her satchel, she pulled a sachet of memory moss and warm ginger blossom, crumbling both into a small clay bowl. A flick of her fingers, a whispered invocation, and the scent rose—cozy, familiar, tinged with spiced sugar and hearthsmoke. The ghost inhaled, eyelids fluttering.
"I know that smell…" his voice was a breeze against their cheeks. "My gran made ginger-breadies… with cracked sugar tops. She used to hum…"
Laurel hummed, soft and low, weaving in the lullaby Willowmere mothers had sung for generations. The boy's form shimmered, then pulsed with warm light.
And then he was gone. Not vanished, not expelled—just… lifted, like mist burned off by morning sun.
Rowan sniffled. "I wasn't ready."
"Neither was he," Laurel said. "But he's where he needs to be now."
Pippin licked a paw. "Well. I solved a haunting. You may begin your applause."
Laurel smiled and offered him a ribbon-wrapped packet of salmon jerky. "Our noble quester."
He took it with regal grace.
The walk back was quieter. Whisperwood seemed gentler now, its leaves sighing with a kind of fond farewell. Laurel paused to collect a few sprigs of twilight anise—rare, delicate things that only bloomed in the wake of spirit passages. Their scent was sharp and sweet, like honey left too long in the sun.
Rowan didn't speak until they reached the grove's edge. "Do you think he'll come back? The boy?"
"Not in the way we'd recognize," Laurel said softly. "But… echoes linger. Maybe a warm gust on a cold morning. A humming lullaby from an empty branch. That sort of thing."
Pippin, now draped across Laurel's shoulders like a shawl of judgment, huffed. "I expect you'll carve me a commemorative plaque. 'Here lies Pippin, champion of tragic waifs and master of naps.'"
"You'll get a statue," Laurel said. "Out of soap."
"Lavender-scented," Rowan added.
Back in the shop, the kettle sang its song of return. Laurel brewed a pot of cinnamon-nettle tea, poured three cups, and placed one beside the hearth for anyone unseen who might wander in.
Pippin curled into his basket, tail tucked, eyes slowly closing.
Laurel sat beside him, watching the last flickers of dusk catch on the windowpanes like candlelight.
Outside, the village was slipping into its nighttime rhythm—lanterns blinking awake with sleepy blue glows, shutters creaking shut, and the faint echo of Bram's hammer marking one last stubborn rivet before bed. Willowmere, in all its enchantment, exhaled.
Laurel took the last sip of her tea, now lukewarm but still laced with cinnamon comfort. She watched Rowan finish sketching the spirit boy's image in the margin of her herb journal. No one had asked her to, but some moments asked to be remembered.
"I used to think ghosts were scary," Rowan said without looking up. "But that one just… wanted to be held."
Laurel reached over and adjusted the little sketch's collar with her fingertip. "We all do. Sooner or later."
Pippin snored, a dignified snort that rattled a jar of glowroot on the shelf behind him.
For a moment, no one spoke. The fire crackled. A wisp of spirit moss on the mantle flickered faintly, as though echoing their stillness.
Then, as if on cue, the kettle sang again—this time without water inside.
Laurel smiled. "Someone else is on their way."
And outside, on the edge of Whisperwood, a ribbon danced in the breeze.
Morning rose like steam from a teacup—slow, golden, full of promise. Laurel stood by the window with a slice of spiced oat bread, watching the mist pull away from the garden beds. The spirit moss still clung to the mantle, but it had changed hue—no longer silver-blue, but tinged with pale amber. A sign of gentle passage. Gratitude, maybe.
Rowan sleepily descended the loft stairs, her braid trailing wild herbs from yesterday's rush. She yawned like a cat and accepted the second slice of bread Laurel offered.
"Think he'll want to quest again?" she asked.
"Only if the next haunting comes with a blanket and a fish buffet," Laurel replied.
From his basket, Pippin raised his head, eyes slitted. "I am semi-retired. If the dead need help, they can schedule appointments."
Laurel snorted into her tea.
The bell over the shop door chimed. Not the usual customer tinkle—but soft, musical, like wind passing through reeds. No one entered. But on the welcome mat lay a small glass button, etched with a runic spiral.
Rowan leaned down, brow furrowing. "Is it from… the boy?"
"No," Laurel said, feeling a quiet ripple along her spine. "It's from someone older."
She picked up the button, tucked it into her apron pocket. Another mystery. Another day.
That evening, after a lazy day of drying herbs and cataloguing spiceberries that insisted on singing off-key, Laurel sat with the Eldergrove Grimoire open on her lap. The great book's leather creaked like an old joint, and its pages smelled of pressed rosemary and soot.
She wrote carefully:
Date: Harvest Eve, duskWeather: Calm, scattered mistSubject: Spirit Encounter – Whisperwood (juvenile, benign)Participants: Laurel Eldergrove, Rowan Greenbough, Pippin (feline, vocal)Offering: Ginger blossom & memory moss, warm lullabyOutcome: Spirit released peacefully. Possible trace left—amber moss hue. Button received—origin unknown.Notes: Pippin shows notable affinity for calming spectral presences. Future quests may require warming blanket and snacks.
She closed the grimoire with a satisfied nod, then gently nudged a sleepy Pippin with her toe. "You're getting your own section at this rate."
"Mmm," came the groggy reply. "Just make sure they get my angles right in the illustrations."
Outside, stars began pricking through the velvet sky, each one flickering with the lazy confidence of a town that trusted its herbalist to keep the oddities in check.
And somewhere, far beyond the village lights, a breeze carried a song—half lullaby, half farewell.
The following morning arrived with the promise of spice in the air—clove, cinnamon, and a touch of the unexpected. Festival week was around the corner, and the cobblestones outside the apothecary buzzed with the lazy chaos of early preparations. Laurel watched through the open shutters as Bram argued cheerfully with a crate of sentient pumpkins.
Pippin sat on the sill, tail flicking like a metronome of judgment. "They're going to decorate with those?"
"Pumpkins are traditional," Laurel said.
"They're belligerent," he replied. "And they smell like damp ambition."
Rowan giggled from behind a stack of ribbon-tied herb bundles. "You could help organize them."
Pippin narrowed his eyes. "My talents are better suited to spectral diplomacy and dramatic recline."
Laurel handed him a small felt crown with stitched-on leaves. "Then wear this while you recline. You've earned it."
Pippin studied it, ears twitching, then allowed it to be placed between his ears with all the ceremony of a begrudging prince. "I shall allow a statue. With this crown."
And in the warmth of the apothecary, where herbs danced and cats ruled with sleepy grandeur, the world felt gently in order once more.
Later that week, the village children clustered around the apothecary's story nook, giggling as Laurel recounted the tale of "Sir Pippin and the Ghostly Nap." She left out the part where she'd almost cried—twice—and Rowan helpfully illustrated the story with chalk sketches on the wall.
Pippin, of course, was sprawled across the top shelf, dramatically uninterested. But every so often, his tail twitched in smug rhythm.
"And what did Sir Pippin demand as his noble reward?" Laurel asked, voice light.
"Jerky!" chorused the children.
"With a side of blankets!" added one proudly.
Laurel bowed. "Exactly. And thus, the village was safe, the ghost was at peace, and the hero took a well-earned nap in a sunbeam."
As the children scampered out, Rowan lingered behind, hugging her sketchpad. "You think the story will help them not be afraid?"
Laurel looked at the chalk crown drawn above Pippin's snoozing form. "I think it already has."
The sun dipped low, casting golden fingers through the apothecary windows.
Outside, someone had hung a tiny garland of lavender on the doorknob.
That night, Laurel stepped into the garden with a mug of starpetal tea. The moon hung low and full, brushing the village in silver. Fireflies blinked lazily among the thyme.
She sat on the old bench by the rosemary bush and let the quiet settle around her. It was the sort of silence that knew things—deep forest things, ghost-boy things, cat-hero things.
Pippin slipped through the herbs like ink in water, leapt onto the bench beside her. He didn't speak, just rested his head against her side. Warm, solid. Present.
A soft shimmer caught her eye—on the old garden gate hung the glass button again, now threaded onto a sprig of twilight anise.
No note. No name.
Just a thank-you, pressed in glass and green.
Laurel smiled.
Tomorrow, the lanterns would need hanging. Potions would need bottling. Children would need stories. But tonight was for quiet things.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out the felt crown, and gently set it beside Pippin.
He didn't move. But his tail curled, just slightly, around her wrist.
In the days that followed, the village moved with the rhythm of near-festival anticipation—lanterns strung between chimneys, ribbons braided into ivy, and the unmistakable scent of baked apples clinging to every breeze.
Laurel, seated at her workshop bench, finished bottling a new calming tincture: chamomile, lemon balm, and a hint of memory moss. She labeled it "Pippin's Peace," tucked it on the shelf near the rosehip jam.
Rowan added a hand-drawn placard: "For heroic naps and ghost-free dreams."
From his usual perch, Pippin sniffed the bottle, then turned his attention to a spot in midair, eyes narrowing as if watching something only he could see.
Laurel followed his gaze. Nothing—just a shaft of morning light catching a swirl of dust.
Or perhaps not just dust.
She didn't ask.
Outside, the bell above the door tinkled again—not the musical one, just the ordinary chime of daily life. A new customer, perhaps. Or an old friend returning.
Pippin stretched.
Laurel stood.
And the apothecary, in its odd and lovely way, carried on.
On the eve of the festival, as twilight painted the cobbles in honeyed lavender, Laurel climbed to the rooftop with a lantern in hand. It was an old tradition—lighting the first flame before the night of joy. A way to honor what had passed and what might still come.
Rowan joined her, hair wind-tossed and eyes wide with wonder. "Why do you always light it alone?"
"I don't," Laurel said, passing her the match.
Together, they touched flame to wick, and the lantern bloomed with a steady golden glow. It cast their shadows long across the thatched roof, reaching toward Whisperwood.
Below, villagers clapped as other lights flickered to life—windows, garlands, streetlamps—and the whole of Willowmere gleamed like a village made of dreams.
Behind them, Pippin leapt up onto a chimney pot, wearing his felt crown like it had always belonged.
"Don't forget to mention me in the festival ballad," he said, tail aloft like a banner.
Rowan saluted him. Laurel laughed.
And as night rolled in like a velvet tide, the apothecary pulsed warm with light, memory, and the soft certainty that some quests—especially the quiet, cozy ones—were always worth the journey.
In the still hours before dawn, Laurel returned once more to the grove.
Not to chase ghosts or collect herbs, but to simply be. The oaks towered in patient silence, their bark marked with old magic and older stories. The bioluminescent moss pulsed gently underfoot like a heartbeat slowed by sleep.
She stood where the boy had once rested, a sprig of memory moss in hand. Gently, she set it down, nestled between the roots.
Not a ritual. Not even a goodbye.
Just... recognition.
Behind her, the soft sound of paws on moss. Pippin padded up beside her, silent for once. They stood together, watching the first edge of sunrise pink the horizon.
"Next time," he murmured, "we bring two blankets."
Laurel smiled.
And the wind, curling through the grove, hummed a lullaby she didn't quite remember learning—but had always known.
The apothecary opened late that morning.
No one complained. They never did when the sign on the door read "Back Soon – Moondew to Gather." It was the village's polite way of understanding that Laurel sometimes needed to tend the quiet things.
Inside, Rowan arranged the display of festival brews. "Pippin's Peace" sat beside "Harvest Hearth" and "Gingerleaf Glow." The chalkboard listed daily specials, but also a message in Rowan's curvy print: Ask about our recent ghost-napping services.
From the window, Pippin watched a pair of children hang paper stars along the fence. His tail tapped once, twice. He did not move from his cushion, nor protest when someone added a felt medal to his basket.
Laurel arrived with moondew-damp boots and a smile that tasted of peace. "Ready to work?"
"Debatable," Pippin said.
But he didn't leave the room.
And as the bell above the door sang its simple song again, Willowmere's day began—brimming with herbs, laughter, and just enough mystery to keep it sparkling.
That evening, as the last festival lanterns blinked to sleep and the apothecary shelves settled into their dusky hush, Laurel lit one final candle.
She placed it near the window—where passersby might catch its glow and think of tea, or laughter, or that odd day when a sarcastic cat saved a lost soul with the sheer stubbornness of warmth.
Rowan was upstairs, sketching new labels for next week's calming brews. Pippin was curled in his basket, already dreaming of slightly smugger adventures.
Laurel sat by the hearth, opened the Grimoire one more time, and wrote with a steady hand:
Some quests don't need dragons. Just a place to rest and someone who notices.
Then she closed the book, leaned back, and let the silence hold her.
Outside, the glass button still hung on the apothecary's door, catching moonlight.
Somewhere, in the early hush before sun or song, Laurel woke to a sound.
Not a bell. Not the kettle. Just a soft plunk—as if a pebble had landed on the windowsill.
She padded over in bare feet and pushed the shutter open. There, sitting quite neatly between two sprigs of night-thyme, was a small velvet pouch. Inside: one dried petal of twilight anise, three smooth buttons of unknown origin, and a folded scrap of parchment.
It read: "He remembered. Thank you."
No signature. No flourish.
Just the neat, unassuming gift of being seen.
Laurel closed the window gently.
Behind her, Pippin blinked one eye open. "We're never going to have a boring week again, are we?"
"No," she whispered, climbing back beneath the quilt. "But they'll always end with tea."