Whisperin' Hollow

Chapter 1: The Hidden Stair

Eliot wasn't supposed to be in the attic.

Great Aunt Jennifer had said so that morning, her voice gentle but firm as she'd buttoned her cardigan against the autumn chill. "Stay downstairs, love. I'll only be an hour at the shops." Her hands had smelt of lavender soap when she'd smoothed his hair, and her eyes—pale grey, like rain-washed stone—had lingered on his face a moment longer than usual, as if checking something she couldn't quite name.

But Marmalade had other ideas.

The marmalade cat had been acting strangely all week. He'd always been a peculiar creature—silent as a draught, appearing in doorways without warning, vanishing behind curtains—but lately his behaviour had crossed from peculiar into deliberate. He disappeared for hours at a time, reappearing with dust on his whiskers and an expression Eliot could only describe as purposeful. Twice, Eliot had found him sitting at the bottom of the narrow attic stairs—the ones behind the parlour curtain that no one ever mentioned—yowling in a way that made the air feel thick and expectant.

That Thursday afternoon, with Great Aunt Jennifer gone and the house settling into its customary silence, Marmalade sat at the foot of those stairs again. His tail twitched. His amber eyes fixed upward, unblinking. And he yowled—low, insistent, impossible to ignore.

"All right," Eliot muttered, setting down his book. The pages had stopped making sense anyway; he'd read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word. "But if she asks, this was your idea."

Marmalade's yowl cut off mid-note. He turned and padded up the first stair, pausing to look back with an expression that was unmistakably hurry up.

Eliot hesitated. The attic door was ajar—just a sliver of darkness visible beyond the frame. He'd never been up there. Great Aunt Jennifer kept the door closed, and in the six months since his father had died and she'd moved in, Eliot had never thought to ask why. Some houses had attics full of old furniture and Christmas decorations. Others had attics that were just… closed. This one, apparently, was the latter.

But Marmalade was already halfway up, his orange tail disappearing into shadow.

Eliot climbed.

The stairs were narrow and steep, the wood creaking underfoot in a way that suggested age rather than fragility. Dust motes swirled in the dim light filtering from somewhere above. The air smelt faintly of old paper and something Eliot couldn't quite place—something sweet and dusty, like dried flowers left too long in a drawer.

At the top, the attic door stood fully open.

Eliot stepped through—and stopped.

The attic was nothing like he'd expected.

It wasn't a cramped, cobwebbed space crammed with forgotten boxes. It was a room—high-ceilinged and warm, lit by a round window set into the far wall. The window glowed with soft afternoon light, as if the sun had decided to linger there longer than anywhere else. The floor was wide oak planks, worn smooth and golden. And lining every wall, from floor to ceiling, were shelves.

Hundreds of shelves.

And on those shelves sat jars.

Some were small—spice jars, jam jars, medicine bottles with faded labels. Others were larger—preserving jars, mason jars with wire clasps, earthenware pots sealed with cork. A few weren't jars at all: a wooden box with brass hinges, a tin with a painted lid, a length of knotted string wound carefully around a stone.

But they all glowed.

Softly, faintly—like embers under ash—each vessel pulsed with light. Some glowed amber. Others flickered pale blue or dusky rose. A few shimmered faintly, as if their contents were shifting, uncertain.

Eliot took a step forward, his breath shallow.

"What…" he whispered.

Marmalade had already crossed to the centre of the room. He sat beneath the round window, his tail curled neatly around his paws, and stared directly at a jar on the lowest shelf.

This jar was different.

It wasn't glowing softly. It was blazing—bright as a lantern, golden-blue and urgent. The light pulsed in a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat.

Eliot crouched beside it.

The jar was old glass, slightly clouded, with no label. Inside, the light swirled and coiled, too bright to see through. It wasn't hot—when Eliot reached out cautiously, the glass was cool under his palm—but it felt alive. Like it was waiting for something.

"Should I…?" Eliot glanced at Marmalade, who blinked slowly. Once. Twice.

Permission, apparently.

Eliot wrapped both hands around the jar and lifted it from the shelf.

The moment he did, the light flared—brilliant, blinding—and the jar's lid sprang open with a soft pop.

Something shot out.

Eliot yelped and stumbled backward, clutching the empty jar. The light zipped around the attic in a tight spiral—once, twice, three times—before coming to an abrupt halt in mid-air, hovering at eye level.

It wasn't just light.

It was a creature.

Small—no larger than Eliot's hand—with a round, podgy body that glowed golden-blue. It had wings like a dragonfly's, translucent and humming, and two bright eyes that fixed on Eliot with an expression of profound irritation. Its arms were folded across its chest, and when it spoke, its voice was sharp, Yorkshire-flat, and unmistakably annoyed.

"Tha's opened a case, lad."

Eliot blinked. "A… what?"

"A case. A jar." The creature huffed, its glow flickering with impatience. "Tha's let me out, which means tha's got work to do. That's 'ow it works. Tha opens it, tha takes responsibility."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Doesn't matter what tha meant. Tha did it." The creature zipped closer, its wings buzzing like a wasp. "Name's Brightling. Tha can call me that or nowt at all, makes no difference to me. But if tha wants t'get anywhere wi' this, tha'll need to bottle summat."

"Bottle… what?"

The Brightling sighed—a long, theatrical exhalation that made its glow dim momentarily. "A regret, lad. A sticky bit. Summat tha's been carryin' too long. Folk always find summat to bottle, if they look proper."

Eliot stared at the empty jar in his hands, then at the glowing creature, then at Marmalade, who had started washing his paw with complete indifference.

"I don't understand," Eliot said quietly.

The Brightling's expression softened—just a fraction. "Tha will. But first, tha's got to decide: does tha want t'keep carryin' what's stuck, or does tha want to set it down proper?" It gestured towards the shelves, towards the hundreds of glowing jars. "Every one o' these 'olds summat someone needed to set down for a bit. Tha's just opened mine. Now it's thy turn."

Eliot looked around the attic—at the jars, at the round window, at the listening quiet that filled the space like held breath. He thought about the past six months. About school, where he'd dropped his lunch tray in the canteen and stood frozen whilst everyone stared. About the time he'd tried to explain something about swifts to a classmate and got the words all tangled, and the boy had walked away mid-sentence. About the night he'd cried so hard he'd been sick, and Great Aunt Jennifer had held his hair back without asking why.

Small things. Sticky things. Things that clung.

"What if I lose it?" Eliot asked. "The memory, I mean. What if I bottle it and it's just… gone?"

The Brightling shook its head. "Tha doesn't lose it, lad. Tha just sets it down so tha can see it proper. So it stops weighin' on thee every second. Tha can always come back an' look, if tha needs to."

Eliot thought about that. About setting something down. About not having to carry it all the time.

"All right," he said quietly. "What do I do?"

The Brightling's glow brightened. "Good lad. Now—close thy eyes an' think of summat sticky. Not big. Not terrible. Just… uncomfortable. Summat tha's carried too long."

Eliot closed his eyes.

He thought about the lunch tray. The crash. The way the canteen had gone silent. The way his cheeks had burnt as he'd crouched to pick up the scattered food, his hands shaking, everyone watching. He could still feel it—the heat in his face, the tightness in his chest, the certainty that everyone would remember, that he'd be the boy who dropped his tray forever.

It was small. Stupid, even. But it was sticky.

"That one," Eliot whispered.

"Good. Now—hold t'jar an' let it drift. Don't push. Just… open thy hands an' let it go."

Eliot held the jar in both hands and thought about the memory. He didn't try to forget it. He just… offered it. Like setting down a stone he'd been carrying in his pocket.

The air around the jar shimmered.

And then, slowly—so slowly Eliot almost didn't notice—the memory began to lift. It drifted out of him like smoke, pale and golden, and curled into the jar. The glass grew warm. The light inside pulsed once, twice, and then settled into a soft, steady glow.

Eliot opened his eyes.

The jar was full.

He could still remember the lunch tray. He could still see the canteen, hear the crash, feel the embarrassment. But it didn't burn anymore. It was there—visible, acknowledged—but it wasn't stuck to him. It was in the jar, held gently, glowing like something precious rather than shameful.

"There," the Brightling said, its voice quieter now. "Tha's done it. Now tha can trade."

"Trade?"

"Aye. One regret buys one insight. That's 'ow t'Market works. An' if tha's brave enough, tha might retrieve summat tha's lost." The Brightling floated towards the round window, its glow reflecting in the glass. "But first, tha's got to cross over. Through there."

Eliot looked at the window. Beyond it, the garden was visible—but it looked… softer. The colours were muted, the trees leaning in as if listening. The light was different—thicker, slower, like honey.

"Where does it go?" Eliot asked.

The Brightling smiled—a small, sharp thing. "T'Whisperin' Hollow, lad. Where folk go when they need t'remember proper. Where t'Memory Market is. Where tha can trade that jar for summat worth keepin'."

Eliot looked at the jar in his hands, glowing softly. He looked at Marmalade, who had stopped washing and was watching him with unblinking amber eyes. He looked at the round window, at the garden that wasn't quite the garden, at the threshold waiting.

"All right," he said.

And he climbed through.

Chapter 2: The Whisperin' Hollow

The world tilted.

Not violently—more like the slow, pleasant lurch of stepping off a merry-go-round. Eliot's stomach dipped, his vision blurred for half a second, and then he was standing in the garden.

Except it wasn't the garden.

It looked like the garden—Great Aunt Jennifer's neat rectangle of lawn, the apple tree in the corner, the moss-covered wall—but everything was slightly… off. The grass was softer underfoot, the green muted to sage. The apple tree leaned in towards him, its branches swaying though there was no wind. The wall, usually straight and sturdy, curved gently, as if the stones had decided to settle more comfortably.

And the light—oh, the light was different. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once, golden and diffuse, like the last hour before dusk stretched into permanence.

The Brightling zipped past his ear, its wings humming. "Welcome t'the Hollow, lad. Mind thy step—an' mind thy shape."

"My shape?"

"Aye. The Hollow checks tha's carryin' summat real. If tha's empty—if tha's just wanderin' through for a gawp—it won't let thee pass. But tha's got a jar, so tha's good." The Brightling gestured ahead. "Stile's that way. Cross it proper, an' the path'll open."

Eliot looked where the Brightling pointed. A few metres ahead, half-hidden by long grass, stood a stile—two flat stones with a wooden step between them. It looked old, the wood silvered with age, the stones green with moss.

He walked towards it, the jar warm in his hands.

As he approached, the stile began to whisper.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't even words, exactly. Just a soft, sibilant murmur—like wind through leaves, or distant voices in another room. Eliot couldn't make out what it was saying, but he felt it: a gentle, curious question, like the Hollow was asking What have you brought? What are you carrying?

He held up the jar.

The whispering stopped.

And then the stile seemed to sigh—a long, satisfied exhalation—and the step between the stones glowed faintly, inviting him to cross.

Eliot climbed over.

The moment his foot touched the ground on the other side, the world shifted again—subtly, like a curtain being drawn back. The path ahead, which had been hidden by tall grass, was suddenly visible: a narrow trail paved with pressed leaves and smooth stones, winding through the softened landscape.

The Brightling zipped ahead. "Keep up, lad. Market's not far, but the Hollow likes t'meander. Don't stray off t'path—there's nowt dangerous, but tha might end up walkin' for hours if tha loses thy way."

Eliot followed.

The path wound through the garden—or what had been the garden. He passed the apple tree, which now had names carved into its trunk, each one glowing faintly: Rosie, Thomas, Margaret, Eli. Some were recent, the letters sharp and bright. Others were worn almost smooth, barely visible.

"Who carved those?" Eliot asked.

"Folk who've passed through," the Brightling said without slowing. "Leaves a mark, crossin' into the Hollow. Not everyone does it, but some folk like t'remember they were here."

Eliot reached out to touch one of the names—Eli, near the bottom—but the Brightling tutted sharply. "Don't linger, lad. Tha's not 'ere for sight-seein'."

They walked on.

The path curved past a low stone bench, its surface covered in words—hundreds of them, carved and scratched and written in what looked like charcoal. Eliot slowed to read a few:

I'm sorry I didn't visit.

I should have said it sooner.

Forgive me for forgetting.

"Apologies," the Brightling said, noticing Eliot's gaze. "Folk leave 'em 'ere sometimes, if they need to set 'em down. The bench 'olds 'em. Keeps 'em safe."

"Do they… work?"

The Brightling shrugged, its glow flickering. "Depends what tha means by 'work.' They're not magic spells, lad. But sometimes writin' it down is enough. Sometimes sayin' it out loud—even to a bench—is what tha needs."

Eliot thought about that as they walked. He thought about all the things he'd never said to his father. All the times he'd wanted to ask questions or share something small, but his father had been too tired, too quiet, too far away in his own thoughts. And then, suddenly, there'd been no more time.

He pushed the thought down and kept walking.

The path led them past a puddle—wide and perfectly still, its surface mirror-smooth. Eliot glanced down as he passed and stopped abruptly.

The puddle wasn't reflecting the sky.

It was reflecting a classroom.

Eliot recognised it immediately: his old primary school, Year 4, Miss Hartley's room. He could see the desks, the reading corner, the alphabet frieze along the wall. And there, in the back row, sat a small boy with messy brown hair, staring down at his hands.

Himself. Younger. Maybe eight years old.

The boy in the puddle looked up, his face scrunched with concentration, and said something Eliot couldn't hear. The other children laughed—not cruelly, but enough to make the boy's cheeks flush. He looked back down at his hands and didn't speak again for the rest of the lesson.

Eliot's chest tightened.

"Don't look too long," the Brightling said quietly, hovering beside him. "Puddles show what tha's carryin'. They're not unkind, but they're honest. Best to keep movin'."

Eliot tore his gaze away and hurried forward, the jar clutched tight.

They walked for what felt like ten minutes, though time in the Hollow seemed slippery—sometimes slow, sometimes quick, never quite predictable. The path wound through a small copse of trees, their trunks leaning in so close that their branches formed a canopy overhead. The leaves rustled, though there was still no wind, and Eliot had the distinct impression they were whispering to each other.

And then, quite suddenly, the path opened onto a cobbled square.

Eliot stopped.

The Memory Market.

It was small—no larger than the village square back home—but it felt vast. Stalls ringed the cobbles, each one crooked and leaning, built from mismatched wood and fabric. Lanterns hung from every stall, but they didn't burn with fire. They flickered with light—soft, pulsing, the same glow as the jars in the attic. Some were golden. Others pale blue, rose, amber, green.

And the vendors…

They wore coats. Long, patched coats made from scraps of fabric stitched together—except the fabric wasn't ordinary cloth. Eliot could see words embroidered into the seams, faint and shimmering: I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, Forgive me, I was wrong. The coats rustled softly as the vendors moved, as if the apologies themselves were whispering.

There were perhaps a dozen people in the square—some browsing the stalls, others standing quietly with jars in their hands. No one spoke loudly. The whole place hummed with a low, respectful murmur, like a library or a chapel.

"There," the Brightling said, pointing towards a stall on the far side of the square. "That's where tha needs to go. The tall woman in the grey coat—she's the one who does retrievals. She'll read thy jar an' tell thee what tha can trade for."

Eliot's heart thudded. "What if she says no?"

"She won't. Tha's brought summat real. She'll trade. Question is: what does tha want to retrieve?"

Eliot hadn't thought about that. He'd been so focused on bottling the memory, on following the Brightling, on not getting lost, that he hadn't asked himself what he was actually here for.

But the moment the Brightling asked, he knew.

"The tin soldier," he whispered.

The Brightling's glow softened. "Aye. I thought it might be summat like that. Come on, then. Let's see what she says."

They crossed the square together, Eliot clutching the jar, the Brightling hovering at his shoulder. The cobbles were smooth underfoot, worn by countless footsteps. The lanterns flickered as they passed, their light warm and curious.

The tall woman stood behind her stall, her hands resting lightly on the wooden counter. She was older than Great Aunt Jennifer—maybe sixty, maybe seventy, it was hard to tell. Her face was lined but kind, her eyes pale grey and sharp. Her coat was the longest Eliot had seen, stitched with hundreds of tiny phrases, and when she moved, the fabric whispered softly.

She looked up as Eliot approached, and her gaze went straight to the jar in his hands.

"Good afternoon," she said. Her voice was low, calm, with the same Yorkshire lilt as the Brightling's. "Tha's brought summat to trade?"

Eliot nodded, his mouth dry.

"Let's 'ave a look, then."

She held out her hands, and Eliot placed the jar carefully into them. She didn't open it. She didn't even lift the lid. She just held it, her fingers cradling the glass, her eyes half-closed.

After a moment, she nodded.

"Lunch tray," she said quietly. "Canteen. Dropped it in front of everyone. Burnt cheeks. Heart poundin'. Wanted t'disappear." She opened her eyes and looked at Eliot. "Aye. That's a sticky one. Tha's carried it a while, 'aven't thee?"

Eliot's throat tightened. "Yes."

"Good lad, for bottlin' it. Takes courage to set summat down, even when it's small." She set the jar on the counter and reached beneath the stall, pulling out a small folded piece of paper. She placed it beside the jar. "One regret buys one insight. That's t'rule. This is thine."

Eliot picked up the paper and unfolded it.

The words were written in neat, careful handwriting:

You were trying to belong.

He read it twice. Three times. The tightness in his chest loosened, just a fraction.

"Thank you," he whispered.

The woman nodded. "Now—does tha want to retrieve summat? That's a separate trade, mind. Tha's already paid for t'insight. Retrieval costs extra."

"What… what do I have to trade?"

"Another regret. Another sticky bit. Or…" She paused, her eyes thoughtful. "Sometimes folk trade a question. Summat they've been carryin' that needs answerin'. Depends what tha's got."

Eliot thought about the tin soldier. About his father. About all the questions he'd never asked.

"I want to retrieve something," he said. "A tin soldier. It was my dad's. I lost it."

The woman's expression softened. "Aye. I thought it might be summat like that. An' what'll tha trade for it?"

Eliot hesitated. He didn't have another jar. He hadn't bottled anything else.

"I don't know," he admitted.

The woman studied him for a long moment. Then she said, very gently: "Does tha carry a question, lad? Summat tha's never said out loud?"

Eliot's breath caught.

He did.

He'd been carrying it for months, maybe longer. A question he'd never dared to ask, even to himself.

"Did he…" Eliot's voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. "Did he know I loved him? My dad. He never said much. We never… talked, really. And I never told him. Did he know?"

The woman's eyes glistened, but her voice stayed steady. "That's a good question, lad. A real one. I'll take it."

She reached beneath the counter again and pulled out a small brass key. She handed it to Eliot.

"Forget-Me-Not Corner," she said. "Down t'alley, past the lantern, third door on t'left. The key'll open it. What tha's lost will be waitin' inside."

Eliot took the key, his hand shaking. "Thank you."

The woman smiled—small, sad, kind. "Go on, lad. An' take thy time. Some things need sittin' with."

The Brightling tugged at Eliot's sleeve. "Come on. I'll show thee the way."

They left the market square, the lanterns flickering softly behind them, and Eliot followed the Brightling into the narrow alley that led to Forget-Me-Not Corner.

Chapter 3: What Was Lost

The alley was narrow and dim, the cobbles uneven underfoot. The buildings on either side leaned in close, their walls patched and peeling, their windows dark. A single lantern hung halfway down, swaying gently though there was no breeze, its light soft and golden.

Eliot counted the doors as they passed. The first was painted blue, its wood warped with age. The second was green, with a brass knocker shaped like a fox. And the third—

The third was plain. Wooden, weathered, with a small brass keyhole and no nameplate.

"That's it," the Brightling said, hovering beside Eliot's shoulder. "Use t'key. Go on."

Eliot's hands were shaking. He fitted the key into the lock, turned it, and heard a soft click. The door swung open.

Inside was a small parlour.

It looked… familiar. Not identical to Great Aunt Jennifer's parlour, but close enough to make Eliot's chest tighten. There was a threadbare rug on the floor, a narrow window letting in muted light, a low table with a drawer in the front. The walls were bare except for a single shelf, empty save for a layer of dust.

The drawer in the table was slightly open.

Eliot crossed the room slowly, his footsteps muffled by the rug. He knelt beside the table and pulled the drawer open fully.

Inside, wrapped carefully in white tissue paper, was the tin soldier.

Eliot's breath caught.

He lifted it out gently, peeling back the tissue. The soldier was exactly as he remembered: no taller than his thumb, painted in faded red and blue, one arm missing from the elbow down. The paint was chipped on the chest, and the base was scratched, but it was his. He knew the weight of it, the shape, the way it fit in his palm.

His father had given it to him on his sixth birthday. It had come from the lost property office at the railway depot where his father worked—wedged behind a radiator, forgotten by whoever had dropped it. His father had wrapped it in newspaper and handed it over without ceremony, but Eliot had loved it immediately. For months, it had lived on the parlour floor, standing guard over Lego fortresses and wooden-block castles. And his father had sat beside him sometimes, silent and tired, watching without comment.

The soldier had disappeared a few weeks after his father died. Eliot had searched everywhere—under the sofa, in the toy box, behind the radiators—but it was gone. He'd cried for an hour, alone in his room, feeling like he'd lost his father twice.

And now here it was, solid and real in his hands.

Eliot's vision blurred. He blinked hard, but tears spilt anyway, hot and sudden.

There was something else in the drawer.

A folded piece of paper, tucked beneath where the soldier had been.

Eliot set the soldier down carefully and unfolded the paper.

The handwriting was his father's—small, careful, slightly slanted. Eliot recognised it from old shopping lists, from the birthday card his father had signed the year before he died.

The note said:

You were loved, even when it was quiet.

Eliot read it once. Twice. Three times.

And then he sat on the floor of the small, strange parlour and cried properly—not the silent, swallowed tears he'd learnt to hide, but deep, shaking sobs that felt like they were pulling something loose inside him.

The Brightling hovered nearby, its glow dim and respectful. It didn't speak. It just waited.

Eventually, Eliot's breathing steadied. He wiped his face with his sleeve, picked up the tin soldier, and folded the note carefully. He tucked both into his pocket.

"Thank you," he whispered.

The Brightling's glow brightened slightly. "Tha's done well, lad. Not everyone retrieves what they're lookin' for. But tha did. That's summat."

Eliot stood, his legs shaky. "Can I go back now?"

"Aye. Back through t'Market, back through t'Hollow, back through t'window. Tha knows the way."

They left the parlour, the door swinging shut softly behind them. The alley felt less oppressive now, the lantern's light warmer. When they re-entered the Market square, the stallkeeper glanced up and nodded once—acknowledgement, maybe, or approval.

Eliot walked through the square, past the stalls and the lanterns, and followed the path back through the Hollow. The puddle didn't reflect anything this time. The bench of apologies sat quietly. The tree with the carved names glowed faintly as he passed.

When he reached the stile, he climbed over without hesitation.

And then he was standing in the garden—the real garden, with its straight wall and upright apple tree—and the round window of the attic glowed softly above him.

He climbed back through.

Chapter 4: The Test

The attic was exactly as he'd left it. The shelves lined the walls, the jars glowing softly. Marmalade sat on the floor near the trapdoor, washing his paw with complete indifference.

Eliot looked down at his hands. The tin soldier was still there, solid and real. The note was still folded in his pocket.

He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"We're back," he whispered.

The Brightling floated beside him, its glow steady. "Aye. Tha made it."

Eliot crossed to the shelves and looked for an empty space. There—on the lowest shelf, in the corner, just a quiet spot where the wood was smooth and dust-free. He set the tin soldier down carefully, propping it upright so it stood at attention. Then he took the note from his pocket, unfolded it one more time, and read the words again.

You were loved, even when it was quiet.

He folded it carefully and placed it beside the soldier.

"There," he said softly. "So I know where they are. So I can come back."

The Brightling's glow brightened. "Aye, lad. So tha can come back."

For the first time since his father had died, Eliot felt like he could breathe properly.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, looking at the shelf, at the tin soldier standing guard over the folded note. The attic was warm and quiet, the light from the round window soft and golden. Marmalade padded over and curled up beside him, purring softly.

Eliot closed his eyes and let himself rest.

He didn't know how long he sat there. Minutes, maybe. Or hours. Time in the attic felt slippery, the way it had in the Hollow.

Eventually, he heard footsteps on the stairs.

Eliot's eyes flew open. The Brightling zipped behind a jar, its glow dimming.

A figure appeared through the trapdoor.

It was the stallkeeper.

She climbed into the attic slowly, her long coat rustling softly. In her hands, she carried an empty jar—the same size and shape as the one Eliot had used to bottle his lunch-tray embarrassment.

She crossed the room and stopped a few feet from where Eliot sat. Her expression was calm, but there was something else in her eyes now. Something like a test.

"I thought tha might be 'eadin' back," she said. Her voice was still kind, but there was an edge to it now—something sharp beneath the gentleness.

"What do you want?" Eliot asked, though part of him already knew.

"Tha's just retrieved summat precious," the stallkeeper said. "A soldier. A note. Things that matter. But shame's got resale value, love. And what tha's just learnt—that tha were loved, even in t'quiet—well. That's worth summat too."

Eliot's stomach dropped. "You want me to trade it back?"

"Not trade," the stallkeeper said. "Sell. There's a difference. Tha'd get summat for it. Summat light. Summat easy. Most folk do. Most folk sell twice—once to retrieve, once to forget."

The Brightling's glow flickered from behind the jar. "Tha doesn't 'ave to, lad."

Eliot looked at the empty jar in the stallkeeper's hand. He thought about how light he'd felt after bottling the lunch-tray embarrassment. How easy it had been to let it go.

But he thought about the note, too. About his father's handwriting. About the tin soldier standing watch on the shelf.

If he sold the memory—the insight, the note, the feeling of being loved—would he still understand it? Would he still carry it with him?

Or would it just be… gone?

"No," Eliot said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I'm keeping it."

The stallkeeper's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes softened. She tucked the empty jar back into her coat. "Good lad," she said. "Most folk don't. But tha did. That's summat."

She turned and walked back to the trapdoor. Before she descended, she looked back at Eliot one more time.

"Tha knows how to hold things now," she said quietly. "That's rare. Don't forget it."

And then she was gone.

The attic settled back into silence. The Brightling floated out from behind the jar, its glow bright again.

"Tha did well, lad," it said. "Not everyone passes that test."

Eliot looked at his shelf—the soldier, the note, the empty space waiting for more. "What happens now?"

"Now?" The Brightling shrugged. "Tha keeps goin'. Tha builds thy archive. Tha holds what matters. And when tha needs to come back, tha knows where t'find it."

Eliot nodded slowly. He picked up the insight note the stallkeeper had given him—You were trying to belong—and placed it beside the soldier and the other note.

"I'm going to keep more things here," he said quietly. "Small things. Things that matter."

The Brightling's glow softened. "Aye, lad. That's the idea."

And for the first time in a long time, Eliot felt like he understood something important.

He didn't have to forget to heal. He didn't have to erase the hard things to move forward.

He just had to hold them gently.

Epilogue: Six Months Later

Eliot climbed the attic stairs on a Tuesday evening in early spring. The air was warmer now, and through the round window, he could see the garden beginning to bloom—daffodils pushing through the soil, the apple tree thick with pale buds.

His shelf had grown.

The tin soldier still stood at the centre, the notes folded beside it. But around them now were other things: a birthday card from his mum, a conker from the park, a photograph of him and Great Aunt Jennifer at the seaside, a small jar containing a single button—the last one from his father's work coat. A smooth stone from the garden, collected the day after it rained. A pressed leaf from the Whisperin' Hollow, still faintly glowing.

Eliot sat cross-legged on the floor, looking at the shelf. Marmalade curled up beside him, warm and purring.

He picked up the tin soldier, holding it gently in both hands. He thought about his father. About the quiet afternoons on the parlour floor. About the way love could be small and steady and easy to miss.

It still hurt, sometimes. But it didn't feel quite so heavy anymore.

The Brightling hadn't appeared in weeks. Eliot thought it had probably moved on—found another child, another archive, another set of jars to sort and shelves to dust.

But the attic was still here. Still listening. Still holding what mattered.

Eliot set the soldier back on the shelf and pulled out his notebook. He wrote, in careful letters:

Things worth keeping:

• The way Marmalade purrs when it rains

• Great Aunt Jennifer's lavender soap

• The smooth stone from the garden

• The memory of Dad's quiet company

• The feeling of being loved, even in the silence

He tore the page out carefully and placed it on the shelf.

Outside, the garden shifted in the breeze. The round window glowed faintly in the evening light.

And somewhere, in the Whisperin' Hollow, the Memory Market carried on—trading, collecting, holding what folk couldn't hold themselves.

But Eliot didn't need it anymore.

He had his archive. He had his shelf. He had Marmalade and Great Aunt Jennifer and the quiet, patient work of remembering.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs—slow, careful. Great Aunt Jennifer appeared through the trapdoor, her silver hair loose around her shoulders. She didn't say anything at first. She just crossed to the opposite wall and brushed dust from a shelf Eliot hadn't noticed before.

On it sat a hairbrush, a pressed violet, a folded letter yellowed with age.

Great Aunt Jennifer looked at her shelf, then at Eliot's, and nodded. "It's a good place to keep things," she said quietly.

Eliot stared at her. "You… you know about this place?"

"I found it a long time ago," she said. "When I needed it. Just like tha did."

She sat down on an old trunk, her hands folded in her lap. "Some things need keepin', love. Not solvin'. Just keepin'. And that's all right."

Eliot looked at the tin soldier, at the notes, at the small collection of memories he'd begun to build. "Does it ever stop hurting?"

Great Aunt Jennifer was quiet for a moment. "No," she said. "But tha learns to hold it differently. Gently, like. So it doesn't weigh thee down quite so much."

They sat together in the warm, listening attic, surrounded by jars and memories and light that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

And Eliot understood, finally, what the archive was for.

Not to erase the pain. Not to trade it away. But to hold it carefully, to give it a place, to let it be part of him without consuming him.

Marmalade padded up through the trapdoor and settled between them, purring softly.

And in Forget-Me-Not Corner, the tin soldier stood watch over a boy learning to remember.

— End —