Chapter 2 Segment 3 of The Sentient She Shed
The scroll hadn’t moved.
It sat on its velvet cushion, edges curled like it had been waiting a long time. The mouse adjusted its spectacles, then tapped the scroll once with its paw.
Lila reached out.
The parchment was soft, almost warm. As she touched it, the ink shimmered—faint blue lines glowing like moonlight on water. Symbols danced across the surface, rearranging themselves until they formed a single question:
“What do you carry that no one else can?”
Lila blinked.
She read it again.
It wasn’t a riddle in the usual sense. It didn’t ask for logic or cleverness. It asked for truth.
She looked down at the book in her lap. Her sketches. Her poems. Her questions. Her quiet.
Was that the answer?
The mouse adjusted his spectacles and squeaked softly. Lila blinked. “Do you have a name?” she whispered.
The mouse squeaked once, then climbed onto the scroll and pointed to a glowing glyph in the corner. It pulsed gently, like a heartbeat — a single word was written in tiny script: SnugBits.
Lila touched it.
The scroll folded itself, then vanished—not in a flash, but in a soft sigh, like a candle going out.
The lamp flickered.
The bookshelf shifted.
And a door appeared.
If a scroll asked you what you carry that no one else can, what would you say? A memory? A dream? A story only you can tell?
Prompt for readers: you can put your answers in the comment box below: