The Postmaster’s Visit

The morning mist hadn’t yet left the path when Quillby Hop arrived at the wooden gate of Willow Fernly’s garden. The latch squeaked gently as he pushed it open, careful not to disturb the lavender spilling over the edges like a waterfall of scent.

He paused to take in the rows of herbs and wildflowers, planted with such quiet intention that it felt almost like walking into someone’s dream. Bees bobbed between rosemary stalks, and somewhere near the greenhouse, a kettle whistled low like a sleepy bird.

“Willow?” he called, though not very loudly.

There was a rustle behind a wall of sunflowers. Out stepped Willow Fernly, wiping her paws on an apron smudged with soil and calendula petals. Her ears perked at the sight of him.

“Morning delivery?” she asked, already smiling with her eyes.

“Letter and a favor,” Quillby said, holding up an envelope and a small packet of seeds. “Thought these might suit your spring rows.”

Willow took them with quiet grace, nodding toward the porch. “Tea’s just ready, if you’ve got time.”

“I always make time for thyme,” Quillby quipped, earning a rare chuckle as they disappeared into the fragrant calm of the cottage.