Otto Waits for the Bell — Under the low lamp, Otto pressed one paw into his cushion and listened for the smallest Christmas sound: the silver bell on the bottom branch. Read the full story →
Under the low lamp, Otto pressed one paw into his cushion and listened for the smallest Christmas sound: the silver bell on the bottom branch. He wanted to tap it once before the house woke. But the bell hung beyond the warm rug, past cold floorboards that tickled his toes and a tumble of glass balls that smelled like dusty paper.
He crept out anyway. Plink went one bead. Bump went one ornament. Otto froze inside the branches, whiskers full of pine, when a tiny voice chirred, “Wait for the room to breathe.” A green cricket sat beside the bell, rubbing its legs like a quiet violin. Otto waited through the heater’s sigh, the window’s creak, and one slow blink of moonlight. His tail itched. His paws ached from holding still.
At last the branch dipped by itself. Ting. The bell made a sound so soft it felt like snow landing. Otto did not tap it again. He carried the quiet back to his cushion, softer than before, while three little paw prints kept his secret under the low lamp.
