The Brightling at Forget Me Not Corner

This is the revised and polished text of The Brightling and the Forget-Me-Not-Corner.

The Brightling and the Forget-Me-Not-Corner

I. The Flicker: The Attic and the Anchor of Light

The attic air tasted of dust, mouse-nibbled paper, and the cold remnants of a thousand Sunday afternoons. Eliot, nine years old and armed with an overactive imagination, didn’t mind it one bit; the quiet up here was conducive to proper exploration. He considered it superior to the relentless, sunlit cheer of the kitchen downstairs.

He was rummaging through a big, damp-stained trunk—full of Great Aunt Jennifer’s belongings. He caught sight of something else, half-buried under a yellowed map: a tiny, tarnished tin toy soldier, a Guardsman with one arm broken. Common detritus, structurally unsound, he thought, and left it where it lay.

He hauled out a small, stoppered jam jar. Inside, nestled on a cushion of dried, brown moss, was a light. It was simply light, a tiny, perfect sphere the colour of weak tea and forgotten hope, pulsing faintly, like a sluggish, ethereal heart.

Eliot carefully placed the jar on the floorboards. "Hello?" he whispered.

A sound, thin and high like the chime of a distant bell, drifted out of the glass.

“Eeh, for goodness sake, lad, use your voice,” the voice chirped. “I’m the bit you’re missing. I am your Brightling.”

“Are you a memory?” Eliot asked, pushing his spectacles higher.

“I’m what memory leaves behind when it forgets to close the door. I’m a mistake. And sometimes? I’m a rumour.”

“That’s… multiple ontologies,” Eliot observed.

“Why you? Because you're the only poor sod with the sense to look in the attic, aren’t you? You look like you need sorting out. We’ve got a trade to make. You need two vessels, lad. One for me, and another empty one for the market.”

Eliot collected a clean spice jar. He pulled the cork free, and the orb floated out. He took the floating light and headed straight for the familiar, dense green boundary of the Whispering Hollow.

II. The Glow and the Gloom: The Anchor of Moss

He reached the edge of the woods, where a rickety wooden stile stood guard over the path. The air became thick with the scent of wet soil and something akin to old lavender. The wind didn't just sigh; it whispered names he almost knew.

“The paths are wrong,” Eliot muttered. “There appears to be a topographical deviation.”

“Topographical deviation? You mean the path’s moved, you daft beggar! Now, listen up. Which way is the quietest way? The one that sighs like a library?”

Eliot chose the quietest path. It led them deeper into the damp, hushed heart of the Hollow.

“Look at that patch of moss, go on,” the Brightling announced.

Eliot knelt, pressing his palm flat against the living carpet. He felt a dull, rhythmic thump… thump… thump. He saw that the damp green wasn't just green—it was the faded felt of an old school cap, and the gentle curve of a clay pipe.

He knew the Latin name for moss, but that didn't matter. He felt, quite acutely, that he needed a cuddle.

The Brightling hovered close to his ear. “There! You felt the bloody thing. Now you must trade what it taught you. We need to go and make our trade.”

The orb zipped forward, guiding him through a twisting passage between two ancient yew hedges, and they emerged, quite suddenly, onto a cobbled square pulsating with a strange, subdued light.

III. The Memory Market: The Anchor of Bottled Emotions

The square was quiet, unnaturally so for a market.

“Stop theorising and listen to the rules, lad,” the Brightling cut in, floating over to a sign written on faded parchment:

> One regret buys one insight.

> Shame weighs more than longing.

> Joy is never for sale.

>

“Ask the stallholder about the Regret of the Wet Socks.”

The vendor pointed at a sealed vial with a pale, smoky grey curl. "Cost is one moment of personal awkwardness."

Eliot, mistakenly seeking to demonstrate his maturity, attempted to offer his most recent achievement. "I will trade the satisfaction derived from correctly identifying the migratory patterns of the European Swift.”

“That’s pride, you great ninny! And pride’s not yours to give. Shame is,” the Brightling snapped, its light flaring. “You want to trade for an old sock regret? You need to pay with the hot, prickly feeling that makes you want to crawl under the bed. That spice jar is for bottling your shame.”

Eliot went stiff, focusing on the moment he had corrected Uncle Geoffrey’s history fact at Christmas. He pulled the cork from the empty spice jar and held it out, letting the memory—a wave of humiliation—flow out and condense into a wisp of warm, reddish smoke.

The Brightling zipped the wisp into the jar, sealing it. The vendor placed the small, grey Regret of the Wet Socks vial into Eliot's hand.

“You hold onto it, you donkey,” the Brightling retorted. “It’s a place-holder. Now you’ve paid the toll and you’ve got the sense to listen, we can go and find the place where the proper magic hides.”

IV. The Glimpse of Green and Gold

The Brightling led Eliot back into the Hollow. They stepped out onto a vast, perfectly green lawn. In the absolute centre sat a worn green leather armchair. Sunlight—a sharp, golden shaft—streamed down onto it.

“It’s a place-chair, mate. It’s a chair built for remembering things you’ve lost the knack for,” the Brightling explained. “Some things hide in plain sight, waiting for the right eyes. You weren’t looking hard enough in that trunk either, were you?” “Sit down. And put that daft sock regret vial in the armrest pocket.”

Eliot sank into the soft warmth. The green lawn vanished. Eliot was in Great Aunt Jennifer's parlour, the scent of pipe tobacco and the sound of a coal fire filling the air.

Aunt Jennifer reached down and fished a tiny, tarnished brass key out of the pouch in the armrest.

"This key unlocks the place where things go when they're too small to keep, but too important to throw away. The Forget-Me-Not-Corner."

Eliot forced his mind to follow the key's shape. It led him not to a door, but to a tiny, damp alcove under the twisting, exposed root of the great Oak of Witsend.

V. The Forget-Me-Not-Corner

The Oak of Witsend was an enormous, terrible landmark. It felt less like a tree and more like the tired, watchful guardian of the Whispering Hollow.

Eliot spotted the small, perfectly rectangular depression in the root.

He pushed the small vial of pale grey smoke—the Wet Socks Regret—into the depression. It fit perfectly.

The oak tree simply relaxed. A heavy breath passed through its limbs. The flap of bark peeled back, revealing a hollow.

Eliot knelt and hesitantly reached his hand inside. He pulled it out. The tarnished tin toy soldier. The Guardsman with the broken arm. He remembered seeing it, dismissing it, just an hour ago, and understood: it hadn't been lost; it had been waiting.

“No,” Eliot said, a quiet sense of triumph replacing his earlier anxiety. “It’s the Forget-Me-Not-Corner. This must have been the soldier my father lost when he was little.”

VI. The Weight of a Soldier

“Right then,” the Brightling said. “You’ve got your job done. Time we were getting back.”

Eliot pushed open the back door of the house. He slipped the tin soldier into the breast pocket of his coat.

“What’s the point of keeping the bad memory, then?” Eliot asked the light, which settled in its original jam jar.

“Because you need to learn what you’re rid of, you big clot. You’ve not got rid of the memory, you’ve just catalogued it. The shame’s just the smoke, mate. The lesson is that sometimes, even if you’re right, it’s best to let a grown-up think they know best. You keep it there, and you learn from looking at it. That’s the proper trade.”

“The Hollow won’t be needing us until the next time something important gets too small to keep. But, just between you and me, that market chap will be after your bottled shame soon. It was a good, strong specimen of awkwardness. Some say the Brightling was once a boy who bottled too much, trying to trade his way out of feeling. Keep your wits about you, lad.”

The attic air fell quiet again, tasting only of dust and the promising, expectant stillness. The flicker had become a friend, and the attic a secret launchpad for the unexpected.