Chapter 6 Segment 1 of the Sentient She Shed
Lila didn’t mean to find it. She was tracing the edge of the tapestry, following the shimmer of her new thread, when her heel caught a hollow step.
The Shed paused. Not in alarm. In invitation.
She knelt. The floorboard lifted with a sigh, revealing a hatch lined in velvet dust. Inside: scrolls wrapped in twine, sketches on brittle paper, a bell with no clapper, and a single photograph—faded, but unmistakably her.
Not her now. Her then. The version who first dreamed of a space like this.
The Shed had kept it safe. Not just the objects, but the memory. The moment she almost gave up. The letter she never sent. The doodle that became a logo. The first list of names for the mascots.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t laugh. She just sat with it.
And the Shed sat with her.
The mice gathered quietly, forming a circle around the hatch. Whiskers placed a paw on the bell. It rang anyway.
Not loudly. Just enough to say: We remember. You matter. Even the parts you forgot.
Reader Prompt:
What forgotten part of your story wants to be remembered?