The Snibbet

Chapter One: Something Missing

The house was always talking to itself.

The old radiator ticked. The third stair groaned. The kitchen tap dripped dot-dot-dash. I knew every sound.

I lived in these sounds. They were reliable. They didn't expect anything from me.

People were different.

It was Saturday morning, and I was curled in my usual spot--the faded chair by the window. I was thirteen, in Year 9, and this chair had been mine for as long as I could remember. My sketchbook lay open on my lap, but I wasn't drawing.

Something was wrong.

The bookshelf stood against the far wall, tall and dark, with glass doors that stuck when you opened them. Gran said it had been in her family since before the war. Inside were old books with thick pages and beautiful pictures. The Water-Babies. Alice in Wonderland. The Wind in the Willows.

I loved those books. I could spend hours studying the illustrations, following every line with my eyes.

But this morning, one was missing.

Between The Wind in the Willows and The Secret Garden, there was a gap. Exactly the width of The Water-Babies.

I got up and crossed the room. The bookshelf doors opened with their usual creak. I ran my finger along the empty space.

Nothing.

I checked the floor. Sometimes books fell. But there was only dust and a dead spider curled into a ball.

The other books were still there, undisturbed. Next to The Secret Garden was Swallows and Amazons, a newer book Gran gave me for Christmas. It looked untouched.

That was odd. Why take the old, fragile book and leave the newer one?

I stood very still, using my particular talent.

Most people moved through the world making noise. I'd learnt to be still, to become part of the furniture, to observe without interfering. When you were quiet enough, you noticed things.

And there, underneath the house sounds, something else.

A smell.

Old glue. The vanilla-sweet smell of ancient book glue. And something dusty, like old cloth.

I crouched down and brought my face closer to the shelf. That's when I saw it.

On the carpet, just below where The Water-Babies should have been: a paper shaving.

It was thin as a whisper, curled like a tiny spring, the colour of old cream. When I held it up to the light, I could see faint letters along its curve.

Books didn't shed perfect spiral shavings.

I sat back and thought.

Someone, or something, had taken The Water-Babies. Something that left behind old book smell and made paper shavings. Something that chose carefully, taking the old illustrated book and ignoring the new one.

Something that might still be in the house.

I looked at the gap again, then down at the skirting board. The paint was old there, layered many times. But at the corner, where the wood met the wall, there was a space. A gap just large enough for something small to slip through.

I pressed my cheek against the dusty carpet and peered into the darkness. I couldn't see much, just a suggestion of space beyond, a hollow where the floorboards met the wall.

But I thought I could detect, very faintly, that same vanilla-and-linen scent.

As I stared into the darkness, something strange happened. The gap seemed to... shift. Not grow larger exactly, but become more possible. As if the shadows were rearranging themselves to suggest: You could fit through here. If you dared.

I pulled back, blinking. When I looked again, the gap looked the same as before, impossibly small. But the feeling remained: an invitation. A sense that the house would make room if I truly wanted to enter.

A plan formed in my mind.

I would watch. I would wait.

From my room, I fetched my torch, a sheet of drawing paper, and a charcoal pencil. Back in the front room, I set the paper on the carpet, six inches from the gap. On it, I drew a single spiral, echoing the paper shaving.

An invitation. A signal that said: I notice you. I understand.

Then I returned to my chair and settled in to wait.

Mum came in, saw me drawing, smiled, and went back to the kitchen. The smell of onions frying drifted through.

An hour passed. Then another.

My pencil moved occasionally across the page, but my attention stayed fixed on that gap in the skirting board.

Just as the clock chimed noon, I saw it.

Movement.

Something small and brown emerged from the gap. At first it seemed like a trick of the light; but no, there it was again.

It crept out slowly, cautiously. About the size of a large mouse, but rounder. Its surface seemed to shift between fur and moss, changing colour in the grey light.

It moved with quick, deliberate steps, like a wind-up toy with a very good mechanism.

It reached my paper and stopped.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then it touched one tiny paw to the spiral I'd drawn, just a brief tap, and withdrew.

It turned towards the bookshelf.

My heart thudded.

The creature climbed the bookshelf with no effort, its fuzzy surface clinging to the dark wood. It reached the shelf where The Water-Babies had been and, impossibly, passed straight through the glass door.

Inside, it settled next to The Secret Garden, right in the gap. After a moment, it turned. For just a second, two bright points like eyes caught the light. They looked directly at me.

Then it moved back through the glass, down the bookshelf, across the carpet, ignoring my paper completely, and slipped into the gap.

Gone.

I sat for a full minute, not moving.

Then I reached for my sketchbook and began to draw. The shape of the creature. The texture of its surface. The precise way it moved. My hand moved quickly, capturing details before they faded.

I understood several things at once.

One: something lived in the walls. Something that collected books, but not just any books. Old illustrated books full of pictures.

Two: it had ignored my blank paper. It wanted books already filled with images.

Three: it had looked at me. Seen me seeing it. And hadn't run away.

Four: I was going to follow it.

I looked at my drawing; the fuzzy, impossible creature rendered in charcoal. Underneath, I wrote: The Snibbit.

I didn't know where the name came from. It just felt right.

Tomorrow, I would make my expedition into the walls. Tomorrow, I would find where the Snibbit kept its collection.

But for now, I sat and drew, preserving the moment in graphite and paper. My own form of collecting.

And I smiled.

Chapter Two: The Gallery

I didn't sleep much that night. Not from fear, but from humming anticipation. My mind kept replaying the Snibbit's movements, those bright eyes, the way it had looked at me.

When dawn came, grey and reluctant, I was already awake, already planning.

I dressed in old clothes: dark trousers, a black jumper Gran had knitted. I tucked my hair behind my ears, then pulled on a beanie to keep it out of my face, wanting nothing loose that might catch or snag.

Then I assembled my supplies: the torch, twine, my notebook and pencil. And from my bookshelf, one special item.

I stood considering my options. Not Alice; that was a first edition. Not The Wind in the Willows; too precious.

Then I saw it: The Brownies and Other Tales, with pen-and-ink drawings of small creatures working at night while humans slept. I'd found it in a charity shop last summer.

Perfect.

I slipped it into my bag and crept downstairs.

The house was still quiet. Gran's gentle snoring drifted from the kitchen. I had perhaps an hour.

In the front room, I knelt by the gap and shone my torch inside. The beam revealed scratches in the old wood, worn smooth by repeated passage.

About six feet along, I found a loose section of skirting board. I worked my fingers into the gap and pulled. The paint cracked. The board came free.

The opening behind it should have been tiny; barely a foot high, perhaps eighteen inches wide. But as I stared at it, torch in hand, the space seemed to... breathe. The shadows shifted. The opening looked just large enough for me to fit through, as if the house itself was adjusting, making room.

I blinked. The dimensions hadn't actually changed, had they? But the certainty remained: I could fit. The passage would allow me through.

I propped the torch to point inside, tied one end of the twine to the sofa leg, and began to crawl.

The space was tight but manageable - always just barely enough room, the walls seeming to give slightly as I moved through. I pushed my bag ahead, feeding out twine behind me. The smell intensified - dust and age and that vanilla scent.

The passage felt almost alive, responsive. When my shoulder pressed too hard against one wall, the space seemed to accommodate, just slightly. Never dramatically; just enough to let me continue.

The passage turned sharply, then began to slope down between floors. The air grew cooler, damper.

Then the passage opened up.

I emerged into a space – the ceiling was too low to stand, but spacious after the cramped tunnel. My torch swept across walls of old brick and rough timber.

And books.

Everywhere.

Stacked against walls. Piled in corners. Arranged in careful rows. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. All old. All illustrated.

I recognised The Water-Babies immediately. There was a beautiful Grimm's Fairy Tales with Arthur Rackham illustrations. Several volumes of The Strand Magazine. A leather-bound Alice that must be worth a fortune.

But it wasn't theft. It was curation. Every book carefully chosen, carefully placed. Some were open, displaying particular illustrations. Others stacked to create patterns of colour and texture.

A gallery. A museum. A library of visual stories.

And in the centre, sitting perfectly still on a stack of books, was the Snibbit.

We regarded each other in the torchlight.

Up close, I could see it properly. Its surface wasn't quite fur, wasn't quite moss, fine filaments that shifted from brown to grey to green. Its body is about the size of a grapefruit, with four multi-purpose limbs ending in delicate appendages. And those eyes, drops of silver, reflecting my light.

It didn't move. Didn't flee. Just watched.

Slowly, I pulled out The Brownies. I opened it to my favourite illustration; the Brownies sweeping while the family slept, and held it out.

"I brought you this," I whisper.

The Snibbit tilted slightly, studying me, studying the book. Then it moved.

It descended from its perch with deliberate grace, crossed the space, and approached. It didn't snatch. Instead, it extended one tiny limb and touched the page where the illustration was, with infinite gentleness.

It stayed like that for a long moment, as if absorbing the image through touch. Then it withdrew and looked up at me, and I heard a soft sound, a chirp that seemed to carry approval, gratitude, recognition.

And I understood.

It wasn't stealing. It was preserving. Protecting. All these illustrated volumes, safe in this secret space where they would be appreciated, seen.

The Snibbit was a curator, just as I was an observer.

We were the same.

I set the book down carefully. The Snibbit positioned itself beside the page and became still, a living part of the gallery, honouring the offering.

I pulled out my notebook and began to draw. Not hurriedly, but with calm focus. The space. The books. The Snibbit in its gallery.

The creature watched me work with those bright silver eyes, and when I paused to sharpen my pencil, it made another sound, softer, longer, almost like a purr of contentment.

It was pleased I understood.

I stayed for what felt like hours but was probably forty minutes. I examined the collection, noting how books were arranged not by date or author but by artistic style. Pen and ink to the left; Tenniel's precise cross-hatching, Shepard's delicate lines. Watercolours in the middle, Potter's soft animals, Greenaway's dreamy children. Bold, dramatic illustrations to the right, Rackham's twisted trees, Dulac's jewel colours.

The Snibbit had organised them by artistic voice.

I pointed to the arrangement, then to the creature. "You did this. You understand these are different languages. Different ways of telling stories without words."

The Snibbit chirped, emphatic agreement, and for the first time, moved closer to me of its own accord. It climbed onto a nearby stack and sat where I could see it clearly, as if saying: Yes. You see what I see. You understand.

Near the back, I found something else: a small alcove carved into the brick. Inside were objects that didn't belong; a silver thimble, a clay marble, a broken brooch, pearl buttons, and a wooden soldier.

Lost things. Small treasures that had slipped through gaps, fallen behind furniture.

I recognised the marble immediately; the blue one Gran had given me two years ago, the one I'd searched for everywhere.

"You collected this, too," I say softly. "Not just books. But small things that mattered to someone. Things that tell stories."

The Snibbit left its perch and came to stand beside the alcove, one paw touching the marble gently. Then it looked at me, and I could have sworn those silver eyes held a question: Do you understand why?

I thought carefully. "Because they're memories. Little pieces of people's lives. Someone loved this marble enough to give it to me. Someone wore this brooch. These things carry... feeling. Meaning. Even without words."

The Snibbit made a sound I hadn't heard before, deeper, resonant, like a hum of profound satisfaction. Then it did something extraordinary: it picked up the marble and brought it to me, placing it carefully in my palm.

I looked at it, then at the creature. "You want me to take it back?"

The Snibbit chirped; no. It gently pushed my hand back towards the alcove.

"Oh. You want me to keep it here. Because it belongs to the collection now. It's part of the story."

A bright, pleased chirp; yes, exactly.

I placed the marble back carefully, understanding now. "It's not lost any more. It's found--just in a different way. It has a home here, a purpose. That's better than sitting forgotten in my drawer." I paused, watching the Snibbit settle beside the alcove. "You're not stealing. You're preserving. Keeping safe the things people forget, so the stories don't disappear completely."The Snibbit settled beside the alcove, and I understood I'd just been given a great gift: not the marble, but the trust. The creature had shown me its purpose, tested whether I truly understood, and I'd passed.

We sat together in comfortable silence for a while longer. The gallery felt less like a hidden theft-den and more like a sacred space; a chapel for visual stories and forgotten moments.

I checked my watch: 7:45. Time to return before people woke.

"I'll come back," I say. "If that's all right. I won't tell anyone. I promise."

The Snibbit remained still, but those silver eyes tracked me as I moved to the passage. Just before I left, it made one more sound, soft, trusting, like a goodbye between friends.

The walls seemed to accommodate me on the return journey, the space expanding and contracting as I moved through. I crawled back, following my twine, until I emerged into the grey daylight. I replaced the skirting board carefully, checking that it looked undisturbed.

Upstairs, floorboards creaked. Mum was waking.

I filled the kettle and began laying out breakfast. Normal routine. Nothing unusual. But inside, everything had changed.

I'd found something, someone, who understood that silence could be full of meaning, that watching was its own form of participation, that stories could exist without a single spoken word.

By the time Mum appeared, toast was in and tea was brewing.

"Morning, love," she says. "You're up early."

I nodded, smiled, and pointed at the kettle.

"Please," she says.

I brought her tea, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. I'd found the Snibbit's secret, and it had allowed me to see. More than that, it had recognised me as someone who could understand.

That was enough for one morning.

Chapter Three: The Threat

The following week passed in a comfortable pattern. School in the day; difficult, as always, full of expectations I couldn't meet. But evenings in the gallery with the Snibbit became my refuge.

The creature seemed pleased by my visits. It would emerge as soon as I crawled through, chirping a greeting, and we'd spend time together in companionable silence. Sometimes I'd draw. Sometimes I'd study the books. Sometimes I'd just sit and exist in a space where quiet was valued rather than questioned.

On Tuesday evening, the Snibbit did something new. It brought me a small book. Not one of the illustrated volumes, but a plain diary from the 1960s. It opened to a specific page and set it in front of me deliberately.

I read: Nobody believes me about Mr Harrison. Mum says I'm being silly, that I'm imagining things. But I see what I see. Just because I can't explain it properly doesn't mean I'm wrong. I know what I'm observing.

I looked at the Snibbit. "This person... they saw something true, but adults didn't believe them."

A chirp; yes.

"Is that... are you trying to tell me something?"

The creature tilted its head, watching me with unusual intensity. Then it brought another item; a letter from 1945, where a woman described her exhaustion, but no one would listen. And another, a typed note about someone documenting a problem that adults dismissed.

"These are all about people who saw the truth but weren't heard," I say slowly. "People who needed adults to believe them but didn't know how to make them listen."

The Snibbit's chirp was emphatic; yes, pay attention, this is important.

But I didn't understand why it was showing me this. Not yet.

The next day, everything changed.

I was doing homework in the kitchen when I heard Mum on the phone.

"Yes, that's right," she says in that bright, cheerful voice she used with tradespeople. "In the walls. Little scratching sounds at night. My mother's heard them too."

My pencil stopped. My chest went tight.

"Tuesday week? Oh, that's marvellous. Thank you so much."

Pest control.

The room seemed to tilt. The Snibbit. The gallery. All those precious books and lost things. They'd open the walls, set traps, maybe poison…

Mum appeared in the doorway. "That's sorted. Pest control next Tuesday. Should sort out whatever's making those noises."

I tried to speak, to explain, but my throat had closed completely. The words were there, No, you can't, there's something precious in there, please don't hurt it, but they wouldn't come out. Just stuck behind that familiar glass wall.

"What's wrong, love?" Mum asked, seeing my expression.

I shook my head quickly, grabbed my notebook. Started writing: Please don't…

But what could I write? Please don't call pest control because there's a magical creature living in the walls. She'd think I was making up stories. Being childish.

Mum waited patiently while I stared at the blank page, but I couldn't find words that would make her believe, understand, or stop what she'd set in motion.

"It's all right," she says gently. "They're professionals. They'll handle it carefully."

But that was the problem. They'd "handle" the Snibbit. Trap it, remove it, destroy the gallery.

That night I couldn't sleep. At half past midnight, I gave up and crept downstairs. I had to warn the Snibbit. Had to make it understand.

The passage adjusted for me as I crawled through, the walls accommodating my urgent movements. In the gallery, the creature wasn't there initially, but when I whispered "Hello?" it emerged quickly, chirping a greeting that turned questioning when it saw my face.

I pulled out my notebook and began to draw frantically. The house in cross-section. The walls. A man with tools and traps. The Snibbit is running, hiding, trying to escape.

I drew for nearly an hour, page after page, making the threat as clear as I could. When I finished, I laid them out in the centre of the gallery, weighted with the marble.

"People are coming," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Tuesday. They'll open the walls. They'll hurt you. You have to leave, hide, I don't know what to do…"

The Snibbit approached the drawings slowly, studying each one with careful attention. I watched its ears droop slightly as it understood.

For a long moment, it simply looked at the images. Then it did something I'd never seen: it touched the drawing of itself with one paw, traced the outline carefully.

It understood. Completely.

But instead of seeming frightened or preparing to flee, the Snibbit turned to look at me directly. Its gaze was steady, questioning. Then it moved to its gallery, touched the nearest stack of books gently, and looked back at me.

The message was clear: This is my home. My life's work. I'm not leaving.

"But they'll hurt you," I say desperately. "They'll destroy everything."

The Snibbit came closer. It climbed onto my knee, settled there with its small warm weight, and looked up at me. Those silver eyes held something I'd never seen in them before, expectation. Trust. A question.

What are you going to do?

I felt tears prick my eyes. "I don't know. I can't speak to them. When I try to explain important things, the words won't come out. They won't believe me anyway. They'll think I'm making it up."

The Snibbit made a soft sound; not agreement, not disagreement. More like: Try anyway.

Then it did something that made my breath catch. It left my knee, went to its collection, and returned with the diary from yesterday, the one about the child no one believed.

It opened to a different page: I'm going to tell Gran. Even if she doesn't believe me, I have to try. Some things are too important not to speak up about.

"You're saying I need to tell someone," I say slowly. "Even though it's hard. Even though they might not believe me."

An emphatic chirp; yes.

"But who? Mum's already made up her mind. She thinks I'm being silly about the noises."

The Snibbit pulled out another item, a letter where someone had written: Mother won't listen, but perhaps Aunt Sarah will. Sometimes you need to find the right person, not just any person.

"Gran," I breathe. "You think I should tell Gran."

The Snibbit's pleased hum told me I'd understood.

For the first time, I realised something: the Snibbit wasn't just showing me random documents. It was teaching me. Every item it chose was a lesson. The child nobody believed, that was my current situation. The person who found the right adult to tell was my solution.

"You're helping me figure this out," I say with wonder. "You're not just a collector. You're... you're showing me how to handle this."

The creature settled beside me, content. It had guided me to the answer. Now I had to be brave enough to follow through.

"All right," I say, my voice steadier. "Tomorrow, I'll tell Gran everything. I'll write it out so I don't have to speak. And I hope she believes me."

The Snibbit chirped; approval, encouragement, trust.

I stayed with it for another hour, drawing the gallery one more time, trying to capture its beauty in case everything was destroyed. The Snibbit watched me work, occasionally making soft sounds of contentment.

When I finally left, it followed me to the passage entrance, something it had never done before. It touched my hand briefly with one small paw.

A gesture that said: I trust you. I believe you can do this.

I just hoped it was right.

Chapter Four: Finding Allies

The next day, I carried my notebook everywhere, working on what to tell Gran. Every time I tried to write it plainly - There's a magical creature in the walls - it sounded ridiculous. Childish. Like I was making up fairy stories.

But the Snibbit had shown me that diary entry. The child who'd been dismissed had eventually found the right words, the right person, the right moment.

I just had to figure out what those were for me.

At dinner, I watched Gran carefully. She was reading the paper while eating, occasionally commenting to Mum about some political nonsense or local gossip. She had a sharp mind, Gran did. And she'd lived in this house her whole life.

After dinner, I found her in her armchair by the Aga, starting a crossword puzzle.

I settled on the floor beside her with my notebook. For a long moment, I just sat there, gathering courage.

"Something on your mind, love?" Gran asks without looking up from her puzzle.

I nodded.

"Want to tell me about it?"

I nodded again and began to write. But not the simple version. The whole story. Every detail.

I wrote about finding the paper shaving. About waiting and seeing the Snibbit emerge. About following it into the walls and discovering the gallery. About the books arranged by artistic style, the alcove of lost things, the marble she'd given me years ago.

I wrote about how the Snibbit had recognised me as someone who understood. How it had shown me things, taught me things, helped me see that silence could carry meaning.

I wrote about pest control coming on Tuesday, and how terrified I was that they'd destroy everything.

I filled page after page, my hand cramping, but I kept going. Every time I hesitated, I thought of the Snibbit showing me that diary: Some things are too important not to speak up about.

When I finally finished, my hand aching, my heart pounding. I tore out the pages and handed them to Gran.

She set aside her crossword, put on her reading glasses, and began to read.

I watched her face carefully. At first, she looked simply interested, the way she did with any story. Then puzzled. Then something else, recognition, perhaps. Or remembrance.

She read all eight pages without interruption. When she finished, she set them down carefully and looked at me seriously.

"The marble," she says. "The blue one with the spiral. You say you found it in this alcove?"

I nodded emphatically.

"And there were other lost objects? A thimble? Buttons?"

Yes. Yes.

Gran was quiet for a long moment, her fingers drumming on the arm of her chair. Finally, she spoke.

"When I was a girl, about your age, perhaps younger, I used to hear sounds in these walls. My mother said it was mice, but I never believed that. Mice sound different. These sounds were... more purposeful. More organised." She paused. "And once, I found books in the attic. Old illustrated volumes, all arranged very precisely on a shelf I'd never seen anyone touch. At the time, I assumed someone in the family had organised them and forgotten to mention it. But now..."

She looked at me, and I saw it: belief. Real belief.

"Your mother's scheduled pest control for Tuesday week," she says. "But perhaps I can have a word with her. Perhaps we can find a different solution."

I felt something loosen in my chest; not quite relief, because nothing was solved yet, but hope. Real, solid hope.

"Can you show me?" Gran asks gently. "This gallery you've described. Can you take me there?"

I hesitated. The Snibbit had trusted me to keep it secret. But Gran believed me. Gran understood. And the Snibbit had shown me that diary specifically, the one about finding the right adult to tell.

Maybe this was part of the lesson. Not just telling, but showing. Bringing in allies who could help protect what mattered.

I nodded slowly.

"Not tonight," Gran says, reading my hesitation correctly. "It's late, and your creature might be frightened by a stranger appearing suddenly. But soon. When you're ready. When you think... it would be ready."

That night, I returned to the gallery with Gran's words echoing in my mind. The Snibbit emerged immediately, chirping a greeting that turned questioning when it saw my expression.

"I told Gran," I says. "Everything. She believes me."

The Snibbit's ears pricked forward in surprise? Interest?

"She wants to see. To meet you. I think... I think she could help. She's lived here forever. She has authority that I don't. If she tells Mum not to call pest control, Mum might listen."

The creature studied me for a long moment, then went to its collection. It returned with a letter from the 1950s, a woman writing to thank someone named Mrs Ashworth for understanding and accommodating her difficulties.

I read it carefully, noting the gratitude, the relief, the way having an ally transformed the writer's situation from unbearable to manageable.

"You're saying I need allies," I say. "That I can't protect you alone. That sometimes you have to trust the right people, even if it's scary."

An emphatic chirp; yes, exactly.

"Gran is the right person?"

The Snibbit made a considering sound, then, to my surprise, nodded. An actual, deliberate nod of its small head.

It trusted my judgment. It was willing to try.

"All right," I says. "I'll bring her. But not Mum, not yet. Just Gran first. Let you get used to the idea of other people knowing."

The Snibbit chirped in agreement and settled beside me. We sat together in the warm lamplight, and I understood we'd just taken a huge step. The secret was expanding, carefully, to include someone who might be able to help.

The next few days were tense. Gran had quiet conversations with Mum that I wasn't part of. Twice I heard my name mentioned, followed by Mum's frustrated tones and Gran's calm, steady responses.

On Friday evening, Gran found me in the kitchen.

"I've convinced your mother to postpone pest control," she says without preamble. "Told her I wanted to investigate the sounds myself first, that it might be structural settling rather than pests. She's agreed to wait two weeks before rescheduling."

Two weeks. Not much time, but better than nothing.

"Now," Gran continues, "I think it's time you showed me this gallery. Tonight, if you're willing. If your friend is willing."

I went to the gallery first, alone, to prepare the Snibbit. The passage accommodated me as always, the walls seeming to breathe around me. The creature emerged looking somehow nervous, ears twitching, movements quicker than usual.

"Gran's coming," I says. "She believes us. She wants to help. But she needs to see, to understand what she's protecting."

The Snibbit made a small, worried sound.

"I know. I'm scared too. But remember what you showed me, those letters about finding allies, about trusting the right people. Gran is the right person. I'm sure of it."

The creature studied me, then went to its collection one more time. It brought out the thank-you letter to Mrs Ashworth and placed it where Gran would be able to see it when she arrived.

A message: This is what good allies look like. Please be like Mrs Ashworth.

"I'll tell her," I promise.

I returned to fetch Gran. She'd changed into old clothes and brought her own torch. At the entrance to the passage, she paused, studying the opening I'd revealed by removing the skirting board.

For a moment, it looked impossibly small, far too narrow for adults. Gran started to say, "I don't think I can…"

But then she stepped closer, and the shadows shifted. The opening seemed to expand, not dramatically, but noticeably. Still narrow, still requiring care, but... possible.

"Well," Gran says quietly. "It seems we're expected."

She looked at me questioningly.

"The house makes room," I whisper. "If you're meant to see. The Snibbit lives here, and the house protects it. But it's letting us visit because it trusts us."

Gran nodded slowly, accepting this impossible thing with remarkable calm. "Then let's not keep your friend waiting."

She knelt first, torch in hand. The passage accommodated her; never spacious, but always just enough. The walls seemed to breathe around us as we moved, the space expanding and contracting like a living thing. Not threatening, more like the house was aware of us, guiding us through its hidden anatomy.

"This is extraordinary," Gran whispers as we crawl. "I can feel it adjusting. Like it's... helping."

"It is," I says. "Because the Snibbit's here. Because it knows we're not a threat."

The passage took longer with Gran moving carefully, but eventually we emerged into the gallery space. She stood, as much as the low ceiling allowed, and swept her torch across the room.

"Good Lord," she breathes. "You weren't exaggerating. This is extraordinary."

The Snibbit hadn't appeared yet. I could sense it watching from the shadows, assessing this new intruder.

"It's all right," I called softly. "Gran's here to help. She understands about precious things. She knows these books matter."

Silence. Then, slowly, the Snibbit emerged from behind a stack of volumes.

Gran went very still. "Oh," she says quietly. "Oh, my dear."

The Snibbit descended carefully, pausing on a middle shelf to study Gran. Those silver eyes took in every detail: her careful posture, her gentle expression, the way she held her torch low to avoid shining it directly at the creature.

"Hello," Gran says. "I'm Sarah. I've lived in this house for seventy-three years, and I never knew you were here. I'm sorry for that. You've been a very good guardian of these books."

The Snibbit tilted its head, considering. Then, to my amazement, it continued its descent and approached Gran directly.

It stopped about three feet away, studying her. Gran crouched down slowly, making herself less imposing.

"Leo says you've been teaching," she says. "Showing examples of how people navigated difficulties. That's wise. That's kind." She paused. "I'd like to help, if you'll let me. I'd like to make sure pest control doesn't come near this space. That your gallery stays safe."

The Snibbit looked at me, as if asking: Is she trustworthy?

I nodded. "She is. I promise."

The creature seemed to make a decision. It chirped once, acknowledgement, maybe acceptance, and turned its attention to the books. After a moment, it picked up the letter it had left out earlier and brought it to Gran.

She took it carefully, read it with her torch. "Mrs Ashworth," she says softly. "Someone who adapted rather than demanding conformity. Yes, I understand. You're asking if I'll be like her."

The Snibbit chirped; yes.

"I'll do my best," Gran promises.

We stayed for over an hour. Gran examined the books with genuine appreciation, commenting on editions and illustrations. The Snibbit relaxed gradually, even bringing out a few special volumes to show her, a first edition Rackham, a signed Beatrix Potter.

"You have remarkable taste," Gran tells it. "And you've preserved these beautifully. The temperature and darkness here are actually ideal for old books. You've created better storage than many museums manage."

The Snibbit's pleased hum echoed through the gallery.

When we finally prepared to leave, Gran paused at the entrance. "I'll speak with Leo's mother. Explain that there's something valuable here that needs protecting rather than exterminating. I won't tell her exactly what, not yet. But I'll make sure she understands this space is important."

The Snibbit chirped gratefully and, to my surprise, touched its nose briefly to Gran's hand, the same gesture of trust it had given me.

As we crawled back through the passage; the walls accommodating Gran's return journey just as they had her entry, she says quietly, "You were right to tell me. Some secrets are too important to keep alone. And some things too precious to protect without help."

The passage felt easier on the return, as if the house was pleased with how the meeting had gone. We emerged into the front room, and I carefully replaced the skirting board while Gran brushed dust from her clothes.

That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about the Snibbit's lessons. It had shown me the diary about finding the right person to tell. It had taught me that allies mattered. It had guided me, step by step, to a solution I couldn't have found alone.

The creature wasn't just a collector. It was a teacher. And I was learning.

Chapter Five: More Allies and New Challenges

Monday morning came too quickly. At school, I was tense, distracted, worrying about whether Gran could really convince Mum, whether two weeks would be enough.

At lunch, I headed to the library as usual. Grace was already there, reading a book about marine biology.

"You look worried," she says as I sit down. She had that way of noticing without prying.

I hesitated, then pulled out my notebook. Grace was... safe. She never demanded I speak. Never made my silence into a problem.

I wrote: Something's happening at home. Something important. Can't really explain.

She read it and nodded. "Fair enough. If you need to talk or write about it, I'm here."

That simple acceptance made my chest feel tight. In a good way.

We ate in companionable silence, but halfway through lunch, someone else entered the library. A tall Year 10 boy with dark hair that fell across his eyes. He looked around, spotted our table, and after a moment's hesitation, approached.

"Mind if I sit here?" he asks quietly. "Canteen's impossible today. Someone's birthday, they're all singing."

Grace glanced at me. I shook my head; fine with me.

He settled across from us, pulled out his own lunch, and began eating in silence. After about ten minutes, he spoke again, still looking at his book rather than at us.

"This is nice, isn't it? Just sitting without having to perform constant social engagement. Very restful."

I looked up, surprised by the phrasing.

"I'm Marcus," he says. "Year 10. I eat here most days because the canteen's completely overwhelming. Too much sensory input, too many social expectations."

"Grace," she says. "Year 9. And this is Leo."

"Leo," I managed quietly.

"I'm autistic," Marcus adds matter-of-factly. "Find noisy environments impossible to process. Library lunch is an essential survival strategy rather than an antisocial preference."

Something about his directness made it easier to be direct in return. I pulled out my notebook and wrote: Speaking is complicated for me.. Certain situations make speaking really difficult. Quiet spaces help.

Marcus read it and nodded. "Different specific difficulties, but similar accommodation needs. Interesting how that works, not identical experiences but overlapping requirements creating compatible environments."

Grace smiled. "Well, you're welcome to join us. We're not big talkers."

And just like that, our quiet table became a trio.

That evening, I told the Snibbit about Marcus and Grace. The creature listened with interest, then disappeared into its collection.

It returns with a letter from 1978; someone writing about finding "their people," a small group who understood without explanation, who made space for different ways of being.

"You're saying that's what I'm finding," I say. "People like me. Or not like me exactly, but compatible. Understanding."

An emphatic chirp; yes, exactly. This is important.

"Why is it important?"

The Snibbit brought another document, a diary entry from the 1960s: I've spent so long trying to be like everyone else that I'd forgotten what it felt like to just be myself around people. Sarah and Tom don't expect me to change. They just... accept. And that acceptance makes everything else easier. Makes the hard things more bearable.

I read it twice, feeling the truth of it sink in. "When I'm with Grace and Marcus, I don't have to pretend. Don't have to use all my energy managing how I'm perceived. That saves energy for other things."

The Snibbit hummed; profound agreement.

"You're teaching me again," I say. "Showing me that finding compatible people isn't just nice, it's necessary. It's part of navigation."

The creature settled beside me, content. Another lesson delivered, another piece of understanding built.

Wednesday brought English class and a new challenge. Mr Foster had assigned us a group project on the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. He began reading out team assignments.

"Leo, you'll be working with Grace, James, and Priya," he announced.

My stomach dropped. Grace was fine, perfect, even. James, I knew vaguely; he seemed nice enough. But Priya was intense, organised, always taking charge. The thought of working closely with her for weeks made my throat tight.

We rearranged into our groups. Grace settled beside me with a reassuring smile. James arrived with his usual clatter of dropped pens. Priya immediately pulled out a colour-coded planning sheet.

"Right," she says briskly. "We need to choose poems and divide responsibilities. I'm thinking 'The Windhover,' 'Pied Beauty,' and 'God's Grandeur.' Leo, you're good at visual stuff; you could create illustrations. James, you handle audio elements. Grace and I will cover research and presentation."

It was efficient. Organised. And completely overwhelming. She'd just assigned everything without asking what anyone wanted, needed, or felt capable of doing.

I felt my chest tighten, that familiar sense of being swept along by someone else's momentum.

"Could we discuss the poem choices?" Grace said diplomatically. "Make sure we all feel connected to the material?"

"Of course," Priya says, though her tone suggests this was just a formality. "What did everyone think?"

I'd been preparing to stay silent, to just accept whatever she decided. That was easier than trying to speak up, trying to negotiate.

But then I remembered something. The Snibbit had shown me that letter yesterday, about finding people who accepted you. But it had shown me other documents too. Letters about setting boundaries. About speaking up even when it was difficult.

I took a breath. "What about 'God's Grandeur' instead of 'As Kingfishers'?" I says quietly. "It has clearer imagery. Better for visual work."

Three heads turned. I rarely spoke up in group settings. Grace knew this, looked pleased. Priya looked surprised.

"That could work," Grace says supportively.

Priya considered, tapping her pen. "Possibly. The octave-sestet structure could work well visually, showing the contrast between destruction and regeneration. Let's keep both options open for now."

It wasn't perfect. She was still mostly in charge. But she'd listened. And I'd spoken.

James jumped in with enthusiasm. "Could we use actual recordings? Like birdsong for 'The Windhover'? Make it multi-sensory?"

"That's brilliant," Grace says.

The discussion continued, and I found I could contribute occasionally, short comments, suggestions. Not leading, but participating. When my throat tightened and words wouldn't come, I'd write in my notebook and Grace would read it aloud naturally, as if this were completely normal.

Which, for our group, it became.

That evening, I arrived at the gallery feeling exhausted but oddly satisfied. The Snibbit emerged immediately, took one look at me, and chirped a question.

"Group project," I says. "It was... hard. But I spoke up. Set a small boundary. Suggested something I needed."

The creature's ears perked forward; interest, approval.

"Grace helped. She backed me up, made it easier to hold my ground. And even Priya listened, eventually."

The Snibbit disappeared and returned with that letter from 1978 again, the one about finding compatible people. But this time it opened to a different page: Working with Margaret on the committee is so much easier now that I've learnt to state my needs clearly. She doesn't always understand why I need things done differently, but she accepts that I do, and she works with me rather than around me. That acceptance comes partly from her nature, but partly from my learning to ask directly rather than hoping she'll guess.

I read it carefully. "So finding understanding people is important, but I also have to do my part. Have to actually communicate what I need, even when it's difficult."

An emphatic chirp; yes, both things matter.

"The group project is three weeks long," I say. "I'm going to have to keep advocating for myself. Keep speaking up when things don't work for me."

The Snibbit hummed encouragingly and brought me another item: a medal from an old school athletics competition. Not first place. Third place.

I studied it, confused. "What does this mean?"

The creature brought a child's drawing next, signed "Me aged 7" in careful letters. Then a typing certificate from 1954.

"Achievements," I says slowly. "Different kinds of success. Not about being the best or winning everything. Just about... doing well enough to feel proud. Learning skills. Completing things."

The Snibbit's satisfied hum told me I'd understood.

"So the group project, I don't have to be perfect. Don't have to lead or be the most vocal. Just have to contribute in ways that work for me, and that's enough."

Another approving chirp.

I stayed for another hour, feeling the lessons sink in. The Snibbit was teaching me a whole curriculum: Find compatible people. Set boundaries. Communicate needs. Celebrate small achievements rather than demanding perfection.

Each historical fragment was a piece of that education.

The Hopkins project took three weeks, and the Snibbit guided me through every challenge.

When Priya wanted to meet every day after school and I felt overwhelmed, the creature showed me a letter about someone explaining their limited energy reserves to a well-meaning colleague. The next day, I told Priya I could only meet twice a week. She adjusted.

When I struggled with my illustrations, feeling like they weren't good enough, the Snibbit brought that third-place medal again, reminding me that "good enough to contribute" was success.

When James forgot to check with me before volunteering me to explain our project approach to another group, and I froze completely, Grace intervened. That evening, the Snibbit showed me a diary entry about allies who understood and protected when you couldn't protect yourself. I wrote a thank-you note to Grace.

The Snibbit even helped with the art itself. When I worked on the 'Pied Beauty' collage, it brought me a box of old buttons in varied colours and patterns, perfect for showing Hopkins's "dappled" imagery. For 'God's Grandeur,' it produced a piece of mica that caught light like flame.

"You're quite the artistic collaborator," I tells it one evening.

The creature made a sound that might have been pleasure and brought me one more document, Eleanor's journal, which I hadn't seen in weeks.

It opened to a new section, dated several years after the earlier entries: Charlotte asked me today how I've managed to stay in this position for so long when the work is sometimes difficult for me. I told her: I've learnt my limits and learnt to ask for accommodation. I've found allies who understand. And I've stopped measuring my success by others' standards. I do excellent work within my capabilities, and that is enough.

I looked at the Snibbit. "That's what you're teaching me. Not how to become different, but how to work within what I am. How to navigate with my actual capabilities rather than wishing for different ones."

The creature's deep hum resonated through the gallery; profound affirmation.

"And you're doing it by showing me people across history who learnt the same things. So I know it's possible. Know I'm not the first or only person facing this."

Another hum. The Snibbit climbed onto my lap, something it had only done a few times, and settled there with its comfortable weight.

We sat together in the lamplight, teacher and student, curator and observer, creature and child who'd found unexpected understanding in each other.

The presentation day arrived. I was nervous but prepared. I'd practised with the Snibbit, reading my written notes aloud in the safety of the gallery until the words felt smooth.

Our group presented fourth. Priya introduced the project confidently. Grace provided historical context. James played his recordings of birdsong woven with readings of the poems. And I advanced the slides at precise moments, my illustrations appearing on the screen; the dappled beauty collage, the flame-and-earth images of 'God's Grandeur,' a series of sketches capturing the windhover's dramatic swoop.

When Priya invited questions, Mr Foster asked about the visual interpretation choices.

Grace looked at me. "Leo, do you want to explain your thinking?"

I could have shaken my head, let her answer. But I had notes prepared. The Snibbit had shown me it was okay to use supports, to work within my strengths.

I pulled out my notebook and read: "Hopkins wrote in compressed, intense language. I wanted the visuals to match that, dense with detail but also showing the tension between destruction and regeneration. The 'God's Grandeur' piece uses dark colours at the edges but warm earth tones in the centre, showing how nature persists despite damage."

"Excellent," Mr Foster says. "That visual compression mirrors Hopkins's sprung rhythm beautifully."

When we finished and returned to our seats, Priya actually thanked me.

"Your visuals really pulled it together, Leo. Especially the 'God's Grandeur' piece; it captured exactly what Hopkins was doing with the structure."

"Team effort," Grace says, smiling at me.

That evening, I rushed to the gallery to tell the Snibbit. The passage accommodated my eager movements, the walls seeming pleased by my excitement. The creature emerged immediately, chirping an eager question.

"It went well," I says. "Really well. I contributed, people listened, and I didn't have to do it in ways that don't work for me. I played to my strengths instead of fighting my limitations."

The Snibbit made its deepest, most satisfied hum yet. Then it brought out the third-place medal one more time and set it deliberately in my palm.

"I understand," I says. "This is my third place. My version of success. Not first, not perfect, but genuinely good. Good enough to feel proud."

An emphatic chirp; yes, exactly.

I stayed late that night, drawing the gallery one more time, trying to capture its beauty and the strange, profound education it had provided. The Snibbit watched me work, occasionally humming softly.

When I finally prepared to leave, it did something new. It brought me a small notebook; blank, leather-bound, old but unused. It placed it carefully in my hands.

"You want me to have this?"

A chirp; yes.

"For what?"

The creature touched one of my drawings, then the notebook, then looked at me meaningfully.

"Oh. You want me to document this. To keep my own record. Like Eleanor did."

Another affirmative chirp.

I opened the notebook to the first page and wrote: The Snibbit is teaching me how to navigate a world that isn't built for people like me. Not by changing who I am, but by learning to work with my actual capabilities, finding allies, setting boundaries, and celebrating small victories. Each historical fragment it shows me is a lesson. Each document proves I'm not alone across time.

The Snibbit read over my shoulder and hummed approval.

I was building my own archive now. Continuing the conversation across time, adding my voice to all those others who'd navigated similar challenges.

The education was working.

The following week brought more connections. Marcus suggested meeting outside the school on Saturday.

"Museum?" he says at lunch. "They have a new exhibit on crystalline structures. Very visual, very quiet. Thought you both might like it."

Grace looked at me. "Sound good?"

I nodded. A museum on Saturday, a quiet public space, a clear purpose, no pressure for constant interaction. Perfect.

I'd already found one accommodation that worked perfectly: Mr Harrison had let me switch from team sports to swimming. In the pool, I didn't need to speak - just move through the water with methodical focus. It was the one part of school where my silence was an advantage rather than a problem. The repetitive strokes, the contained environment, the lack of verbal coordination required--swimming suited me in ways team sports never had.

That Saturday became the first of many. Museums, botanical gardens, the old library in town; places where the three of us could exist together without requiring constant social performance.

"This is friendship for people who find most friendship exhausting," Marcus observed once as we studied geological specimens.

"Exactly," Grace agrees.

The Snibbit approved. When I told it about these outings, it showed me letters and diary entries about people finding their communities; not despite being different, but because of it. Small groups of compatible people creating spaces where everyone could be themselves.

This is important, the Snibbit seemed to say. You're building what you need.

Chapter Six: Eleanor's Full Story

November arrived with cold rain and shortened days. The Hopkins project was behind us, but school continued to present daily challenges. Some days were manageable. Others left me exhausted and speechless by the time I got home.

But I had tools now. Strategies. And a teacher who met me in a hidden gallery most evenings.

One Tuesday, I arrived at the gallery feeling particularly discouraged. There'd been an incident in History; Mrs. Patterson had called on me directly, demanding an immediate verbal answer, and when I couldn't produce one, she'd sighed with frustration and moved on to someone else. The whole class had felt that awkward silence, that vicarious embarrassment.

I'd wanted to disappear.

The Snibbit emerged as soon as the passage released me into the gallery, took one look at my face, and chirped concern. It studied me for a moment, then disappeared into its collection with unusual purpose.

It returned carrying Eleanor's journal, the Victorian governess whose entries I'd read before. But this time, it brought the entire volume and set it carefully in front of me.

"You want me to read all of it?" I ask.

An emphatic chirp; yes, this is important.

I settled against the brick wall and began to read from the beginning.

Eleanor's story unfolded across decades. She'd started as a young governess in 1885, terrified of her new position, unable to speak to her employers despite being perfectly fluent with the children. The early entries were full of fear and self-doubt: What is wrong with me? Other governesses manage these conversations easily. Why am I so deficient?

But then came Mrs Ashworth's accommodation; the written notes, the quiet acceptance. Eleanor's entries shifted: For the first time, I feel I might manage this position. Not because I've conquered my difficulty, but because Mrs Ashworth has adjusted her expectations to meet my capabilities.

Years passed in the diary. Eleanor taught the Ashworth children, who grew and eventually left for school. She wrote about Charlotte with particular fondness; the youngest daughter, curious and accepting.

Then came an entry from 1895 that made me sit up straighter:

Charlotte, now fifteen, has become a true friend despite our difference in station. Today she asks about my "peculiar silence," as she calls it. I explained as best I could that speech for me is contextual, that authority creates impossibility while safety creates fluency.

She listened carefully, then said something remarkable: "But Miss Eleanor, surely that's evidence of sensitivity rather than deficiency? You're simply more attuned to power dynamics than people who can jabber away regardless of context. That seems rather sophisticated, actually."

I had never considered it that way. What if she's right? What if this isn't a flaw but simply a different way of perceiving and responding to social situations?

I looked up at the Snibbit. "She started to see it differently. Not as something wrong with her, but as a legitimate variation."

The creature chirped encouragingly; keep reading.

The later entries showed Eleanor's growing confidence. She negotiated better terms for her next position, specifically requesting employers who would accept written communication. She connected with other governesses who had various difficulties; one who struggled with reading aloud, another who found group dining impossible.

An entry from 1902: I have realised something important: I spent my first years in service trying to become like other governesses. It was exhausting and unsuccessful. I now spend my energy identifying what I need and finding situations that provide it. This is infinitely more sustainable.

And then, near the end of the journal, an entry dated 1908:

I am leaving this position. The Ashworth children are all grown now, and Mrs Ashworth herself has passed. I have accepted a position as a private librarian for an elderly scholar who requires almost no verbal interaction and values careful, methodical work. It is ideal for me.

I've decided to leave this journal in the house. Hidden, but not impossible to find. Perhaps someday, someone will discover it who needs to know what I've learnt: that accommodation is not weakness, that finding compatible situations is wisdom, that different ways of being are valid even when the world suggests otherwise.

If you're reading this and struggling as I struggled, know that you can find ways through. Find your Mrs Ashworths. Find work that suits your nature. Find allies who understand. And most importantly: stop trying to become someone else. Learn instead to navigate as yourself.

That is the only sustainable path.

I closed the journal carefully, my eyes burning. The Snibbit watched me with unusual intensity.

"She left this specifically for someone like me to find," I say. "A hundred years ago, she wrote this hoping it would help someone in the future."

An emphatic chirp; yes.

"And you kept it safe. Preserved it. Made sure it would be here when I needed it."

The creature's hum was profound, satisfied. It had been guarding Eleanor's message for over a century, waiting for the right person.

"Is that what you do?" I ask slowly. "Not just collect beautiful illustrations, but preserve messages? Keep evidence that people like us have existed and found ways through?"

The Snibbit's response was the longest, most complex sound I'd heard from it; part chirp, part hum, part something else. Agreement. Affirmation. Purpose.

I understood then that the Snibbit wasn't just a curator. It was an archivist of survival strategies. Every document, every letter, every diary entry was evidence that difficult things were navigable, that people had found paths through challenges that seemed impossible.

It was keeping hope alive across generations.

"Thank you," I whisper. "For saving this. For showing it to me."

The creature climbed into my lap and settled there. We sat together for a long time, the weight of Eleanor's message and the Snibbit's purpose filling the quiet gallery.

Outside, November rain drummed steadily. Inside, surrounded by a century of preserved wisdom, I felt part of something larger than myself; a long line of quiet people finding ways to navigate a loud world.

And I had a teacher who'd waited over a hundred years to share these lessons with exactly the right student.

Chapter Seven: The Final Lessons

December brought the first real test of everything I'd learnt. My form tutor, Miss Adeyemi, called me to her office after registration.

"Leo," she says kindly, "I've been hearing good things from Mr Foster about your participation in English. And your group project was excellent. But I've also heard from some teachers that you're still struggling in certain situations, particularly when asked direct questions unexpectedly."

I nodded, my chest tightening.

"I'd like to help. Several of your teachers have mentioned something called selective mutism. Have you heard of that term?"

I shook my head, though the Snibbit had shown me documents where people described exactly what I experienced. I just hadn't known there was a name for it.

Miss Adeyemi explains gently: situational difficulty with speech, neurological rather than psychological, requiring accommodation rather than just "trying harder."

"Would it help if we documented this?" she asks. "Created a learning profile so all your teachers understand how to support you properly?"

My hands shook as I pulled out my notebook. This was exactly what Eleanor's journal had described, finding the Mrs Ashworths, the people willing to adapt. But it required me to advocate clearly for what I needed.

I wrote carefully: Yes. That would help. Some teachers already adjust; Mr Foster lets me prepare written responses, Mr. Harrison let me switch to swimming. But others expect immediate verbal answers, which I often can't give. A formal profile might help them understand it's not about effort or willingness.

Miss Adeyemi read it and nodded. "Exactly right. Let's set up a meeting; you, me, your mum, maybe the school counsellor. We'll create something official that makes expectations clear. You shouldn't have to re-explain this to every teacher individually."

That evening, I rushed to the gallery. The passage welcomed me through, walls breathing accommodation. The Snibbit emerged immediately, chirping a question.

"Something important happened," I say, and tell it about Miss Adeyemi's offer.

The creature listened intently, then went to its collection. But this time, it didn't bring historical documents. Instead, it brought the blank notebook it had given me weeks ago, the one I'd started using to document my own experiences.

It opened to my first entry and tapped it meaningfully with one paw.

"You want me to show her this?" I ask, surprised. "My own documentation?"

A chirp; yes.

"But this is private. It's just my thoughts, my observations…"

The Snibbit brought Eleanor's journal and set it beside mine. The message was clear: Eleanor wrote for future readers. You should, too. Your documentation helps others understand.

I thought about it. The notebook did contain clear examples; specific incidents where I couldn't speak, situations that worked well, and teachers who adapted effectively. It was evidence, from my own perspective, of what I experienced.

"All right," I say slowly. "I'll bring it to the meeting. Show them what it's actually like, not just the official description."

The Snibbit's satisfied hum told me I'd understood the lesson.

The meeting happened the following week. Mum, Miss Adeyemi, myself and Mrs Rashid, the school counsellor, were sitting in a small office that smelled of coffee and old paper.

I'd brought my notebook.

Mrs Rashid explained selective mutism clinically, the neurological basis, contextual triggers, and appropriate accommodations. Miss Adeyemi took notes. Mum asked questions.

Then Miss Adeyemi turned to me. "Leo, is there anything you'd like to add? Anything we should know about how this affects you specifically?"

I'd prepared for this. The Snibbit had shown me Eleanor's clear requests to future employers. I'd practised writing out my needs.

I opened my notebook and pushed it across the table. Miss Adeyemi read aloud:

"Some contexts make speech easy for me: one-on-one with teachers I trust, reading prepared text aloud, conversations with close friends like Grace. Other contexts make it physically impossible: being called on unexpectedly, speaking in front of large groups, and high-pressure situations where I'm put on the spot.

"I can show understanding through writing, through prepared presentations, through practical work. I'm not avoiding participation; I'm participating in ways that actually work for me.

"What helps: advance notice for questions, time to prepare responses, teachers treating written answers as equally valid, being able to signal when I can't speak rather than being pressured to try.

"What doesn't help: being told to 'just try,' being called on randomly to test if I'm paying attention, situations where speaking is the only acceptable way to show knowledge."

The room was quiet when she finished. Then Mum reached over and squeezed my hand.

"That's very clear," Mrs Rashid says. "And incredibly helpful. This is exactly the kind of specific information we need to create an effective support plan."

Over the next hour, they drafted a formal learning profile. One copy for my file, one for each of my teachers. It outlined reasonable accommodations: accepting written responses, providing questions in advance when possible, not calling on me randomly, and allowing alternative forms of participation.

As we left, Miss Adeyemi says, "Leo, you advocated for yourself beautifully today. That's a skill that will serve you far beyond school."

That evening, I told the Snibbit everything. The creature listened, then brought me a letter from 1992, someone thanking a supervisor for implementing accommodations that transformed their work experience.

"This is what Eleanor described," I say. "Finding the right people, explaining clearly what I need, getting formal support rather than hoping for individual understanding."

The Snibbit hummed agreement and brought one more item: a certificate of completion for a typing course from 1954. I'd seen it before but hadn't understood its significance.

"This person learnt a skill that helped them," I say slowly. "Typing meant they could communicate without speaking. It was a tool, an accommodation."

A chirp; yes.

"So I need to keep building tools. Keep learning strategies. The profile is one tool, but I'll need others."

Another affirming chirp. Then the Snibbit did something new, it brought a small stack of blank paper and set it beside my notebook.

"You want me to keep documenting? Keep adding to my own record?"

Yes. The creature's emphatic response made its intention clear.

I understood. Just as Eleanor had left her journal for future readers, I should document my experiences. Not just for myself, but for whoever might find this gallery next; in ten years, or fifty, or a hundred.

The Snibbit was teaching me to pay forward what Eleanor had given me.

The learning profile worked, mostly. Some teachers adapted seamlessly, Mr Foster, Dr Reeves in Chemistry, Mr Harrison. They'd already been making accommodations; now they had official backing.

Others struggled. Mrs Patterson in History tried but kept defaulting to direct questioning, then apologising when she remembered. Frau Weber, in German, seemed sceptical that accommodations were necessary rather than coddling.

But slowly, school became more manageable. Not easy, never easy, but navigable.

Swimming continued to be my refuge. I'd joined the team and discovered genuine talent for distance swimming. The methodical strokes, the internal focus, the lack of verbal coordination, it all suited me perfectly.

"You've got real potential," Mr Harrison says after a practice in January. "Regional championship in March, you should compete."

Compete. In public. With crowds and noise and pressure.

The thought terrified me.

That evening, the Snibbit watched me pace the gallery anxiously. When I finally settled, it brought me that third-place medal again; the one from decades ago, evidence of someone who'd competed and achieved something worthwhile without being first.

"You think I should do it," I say.

A chirp; yes.

"But what if I freeze? What if the pressure makes me non-functional?"

The Snibbit went to its collection and brought back multiple items. A letter about someone preparing extensively for a difficult performance. A diary entry about practising until confidence replaced fear. A certificate of achievement for something that had required overcoming anxiety.

The pattern was clear: Preparation helps. Practice helps. And trying, even if you don't win, is worth doing.

"All right," I says. "I'll compete. But I'm going to need a lot of practice. And maybe... maybe Grace and Marcus could come? Having allies there might help?"

The Snibbit brought that 1978 letter again, about finding compatible people who understood. Yes, bring your allies.

The weeks between January and March were intense. I practised swimming four times a week. The Snibbit showed me documents about preparation, perseverance, and celebrating effort rather than demanding perfection.

The trio at lunch, me, Grace, and Marcus, became a fixture. Our Saturday outings continued: museums, gardens, quiet cafés. We'd become genuinely comfortable with each other, able to exist in silence or talk as needed.

One Saturday at the natural history museum, Marcus says, "You know, this friendship works because none of us requires constant interaction to feel connected. We can just... be."

"Parallel existence," Grace agrees. "Together but not performing togetherness."

"The Snibbit showed me letters about that," I say. People across history have found compatible groups. Building what they needed."

Marcus looked interested. "The creature you told us about? The one in your house?"

I nodded. Grace and Marcus were the only people outside the family who knew, I'd told them carefully, showing them my documentation, Eleanor's journal. They'd believed without question.

"I'd like to meet it sometime," Marcus says. "If that's allowed."

I thought about it. The Snibbit had taught me about allies, about expanding circles of trust carefully. Maybe it was time.

"Maybe," I says. "After the championship. If... if it's still there."

Something in my tone made Grace look at me sharply. "What do you mean, if it's still there?"

"It's fading," I admitted. "Getting more translucent. I think... I think once it's finished teaching me, it might leave."

"Teaching you what?" Marcus asks.

"How to navigate," I say simply. "How to build accommodations, find allies, document experiences. How to be myself in a world that expects something different."

Grace was quiet for a moment. "Then we should definitely meet it. To say thank you, if nothing else. For helping our friend."

The warmth I felt at being called "our friend" stayed with me all day.

March arrived with the championship. The morning of the competition, I was sick with nerves. Grace and Marcus were coming with Mum and Gran, my allies, just as the Snibbit had taught me.

Before we left, I visited the gallery one last time.

The passage felt different, tighter, less accommodating. As if the house's magic was already beginning to fade. I had to squeeze through sections that had always adjusted easily before.

The Snibbit emerged immediately when I entered the gallery, and I could see it clearly now: the creature was definitely more translucent, its edges less defined. Like it was already partly somewhere else.

It chirped a question; Are you ready?

"I don't know," I admitted. "I've practised so much. But what if it's not enough?"

The creature brought me that third-place medal one final time. Then it adds something new, a child's drawing signed "Me aged 7," showing a stick figure with arms raised in triumph.

"Not about winning," I say. "About doing my best and being proud of the effort."

An emphatic chirp; exactly.

The Snibbit climbed into my lap and settled there, its familiar weight lighter now, less substantial. We sat together in the quiet for a few minutes, teacher and student sharing one more moment.

Then it chirped softly; Go. You're ready. Trust what you've learnt.

I held the small creature gently, carefully, afraid it might dissolve if I held too tight. "Thank you. For everything. For all the lessons."

The Snibbit's responding chirp sounded almost like: You're welcome. Now go show them what quiet people can do.

I set it down carefully and moved toward the passage. Just before I crawled through, I turned back. "Will you still be here when I get back?"

The creature tilted its head, and I couldn't read the answer in those silver eyes. Maybe yes. Maybe not. Maybe it depended on whether I still needed it.

I crawled back through the increasingly tight passage, the walls no longer breathing to accommodate me. The house was returning to being just a house.

Chapter Eight: The Championship and Departure

The swimming championship was held at a regional pool two towns over. The building echoed with splashing and shouts and the sharp whistle blasts that ordinarily would have overwhelmed me.

But I had my headphones in until the last possible moment. I'd learnt to create a bubble of focus even in chaos, another skill the Snibbit had taught me through those historical documents about people managing difficult environments.

"Lane four, Leo Anderson," the announcer called.

I pulled off my headphones, handed them to Mr Harrison, and approached the blocks. In the stands, I could see my allies: Grace giving me a thumbs up, Marcus with his steady nod, Gran's calm smile, Mum looking nervous but proud.

The whistle blew.

I dove.

The water closed over me; quiet, contained, predictable. Just me and the rhythm. Stroke, breathe, turn, push. The world narrowed to movement and bubbles and the black line below. All the practice, all the preparation, all the lessons about working within my capabilities rather than fighting them, it all came together.

When I finally touched the wall and surfaced, gasping, I looked at the board.

Third place. Third in the region.

Not first. Not perfect. But genuinely good. Good enough to feel proud.

Mr Harrison was grinning as I climbed out. "Brilliant, Leo! Absolutely brilliant!"

Grace appeared with a towel. "You were amazing! So smooth; you made it look easy."

"It is easy," I say, surprising myself with how readily the words came. In this moment of success, surrounded by people who understood, speech flowed naturally. "In the water, everything makes sense."

Marcus had joined us, book tucked under his arm. "Very efficient. Minimal wasted movement. Elegant."

Later, wrapped in my tracksuit with a bronze medal around my neck, I sat with Grace and Marcus while our families chatted nearby. Marcus had taken the bus over to watch, bringing a book to read between heats.

"Do you think the Snibbit is still there?" Grace asked quietly.

"I don't know," I admitted. "It was fading this morning. I think... I think today might be goodbye."

"Then we should visit," Marcus says. "Say thank you, like I mentioned. If it's leaving, it should know it succeeded."

Grace nodded. "Teaching you was its purpose. It should know the teaching worked."

I felt a lump in my throat. "You're right. Let me ask Mum if you can both come over this evening."

That evening, the three of us stood in my front room. I'd explained to Mum that Grace and Marcus knew about the Snibbit, that they wanted to meet it before it left. She'd understood; Gran's influence had made our household more accepting of impossible things.

"The passage is tight now," I warned. "The house isn't helping anymore. We'll have to really crawl."

"That's fine," Grace says.

I pulled back the skirting board. The opening looked genuinely small now; no magical expansion, no breathing walls. Just an ordinary gap that would be uncomfortable to squeeze through.

We crawled in one at a time. It was difficult; backs scraping the ceiling, shoulders pressed against walls. The house had returned to its fixed dimensions, no longer accommodating visitors.

"This is really narrow," Marcus comments. "How did your Gran fit through?"

"The house used to help," I say. "When the Snibbit was here and the magic was strong, the walls would adjust. Make room. It doesn't do that anymore."

"So we're seeing the real dimensions now," Grace says, squeezing through a particularly tight spot. "The mundane version."

"Yes. But we can still fit. Just takes more effort."

It felt appropriate somehow that accessing the gallery now required genuine physical commitment rather than magical assistance.

We emerged into the gallery space. Grace and Marcus both went still, taking it in; the walls of carefully arranged books, the alcove of lost things, the warm lamplight making everything glow like a secret museum.

"This is incredible," Grace breathes.

"The curation is remarkably sophisticated," Marcus says, immediately spotting the organisational pattern. "Arranged by artistic voice. Someone with genuine aesthetic understanding built this."

But the Snibbit wasn't visible.

"Hello?" I called softly. "I brought friends. They wanted to meet you. To say thank you."

Silence. Then, slowly, the creature emerged from behind a stack of volumes.

It was definitely fading now; so translucent I could almost see through it. The silver eyes were dimmer, the edges of its form blurring into the shadows around it.

Grace and Marcus both inhaled sharply but didn't speak. The Snibbit approached slowly, studying these new visitors with what energy it had left.

"This is Grace and Marcus," I say. "They're my allies. The people I found, like you taught me to. They understand about accommodation and different ways of being. They're part of why the lessons worked."

The Snibbit made a soft sound; pleased, satisfied. It approached Grace first, studying her.

"Hello," Grace says quietly. "Leo's told us about you. About everything you taught. Thank you for helping our friend."

The creature chirped softly, then turned to Marcus.

Marcus, in his characteristic direct way, says, "You've been an effective teacher. Leo's documentation shows clear progression in advocacy skills, social navigation, and self-acceptance. Your pedagogical method, historical examples as case studies, was well-suited to their learning style."

The Snibbit made a sound that might have been amusement at Marcus's formal phrasing, then moved to the centre of the gallery where I'd first seen it sitting months ago.

It looked at me directly, those fading silver eyes holding mine.

"You're leaving now," I say. "Aren't you?"

A soft chirp; yes.

"Because the teaching is finished. Because I can navigate on my own now."

Another chirp; yes, and I'm proud of you.

Grace stepped closer to me, one hand on my shoulder. Marcus stood on my other side. The three of us together, watching as the Snibbit prepared to depart.

"Will you come back?" I ask, though I knew the answer. "If I need you again?"

The creature tilted its head, considering. Then it made a complex sound that seemed to mean: Perhaps. For someone else who needs what you needed. But you're ready now. You have your allies, your tools, your documentation. You have everything I came to teach.

"What should I do with the gallery?" I ask. "With Eleanor's journal and all the fragments?"

The Snibbit brought my notebook, the one it had given me, now half-filled with my own documentation, and set it beside Eleanor's journal. The message was clear: Keep adding to it. Keep the archive alive. Someone else will find it someday.

"I will," I promise. "I'll keep documenting. Keep adding voices. Keep the conversation going across time."

The creature made its deepest hum yet; profound satisfaction that its work would continue.

Then it approached each of us in turn. It touched its nose to my hand, goodbye and thank you, and well done. It did the same to Grace, then Marcus. Each of us received that gesture of trust and farewell.

Finally, it returned to the centre of the gallery, to that spot where I'd first seen it. It looked at the three of us, a quiet child who'd learnt to navigate, and the allies who'd helped make that navigation possible.

The Snibbit chirped once more; bright, clear, final. A goodbye that somehow also felt like a blessing.

Then it simply... dispersed. Like morning mist touched by sunlight. One moment there, the next dissolved into the dust motes and shadows it had always resembled, until there was nothing left but warm lamplight and the careful silence of a secret place.

We stood together for a long moment, the three of us, in that hidden gallery.

"It really did it," Grace says softly. "Taught you everything you needed and then let go."

"Best teachers do that," Marcus observed. "Know when the student is ready to continue independently."

I looked around at the gallery, the books, the lost things, Eleanor's journal, my own growing documentation. The Snibbit was gone, but its work remained. This archive of quiet voices, this evidence that accommodation was possible, that different ways of being were valid.

"We should go," I says. "But I'll keep coming back. Keep adding to the collection. Keep the archive alive."

We crawled back through the tight passage, harder without the house's magic, but manageable. We helped each other through difficult spots, working together.

When we emerged into the front room, I carefully replaced the skirting board. The house felt different now; more ordinary, less alive. Just an old Victorian building with normal walls and ordinary gaps.

But the gallery remained inside it. The archive persisted. And I had the key; both the physical knowledge of how to access it, and the understanding of why it mattered.

"Thank you for coming," I say to Grace and Marcus. "For being here for this."

"That's what allies do," Grace says simply.

"Mutual support is foundational to successful navigation of challenging environments," Marcus adds in his formal way, which made us all smile.

After they left, I sat in the front room for a while, the bronze medal still around my neck. Third place. Good enough. Exactly enough.

Mum found me there. "How are you feeling, love?"

"Sad," I admitted. "But also... ready. The Snibbit taught me everything I needed. Now I have to actually use it."

"You already are," Mum says. "You advocated for yourself at school. You found friends who understand. You competed today and did brilliantly. You're navigating, Leo. Really navigating, not just surviving."

She was right. The Snibbit had given me tools, but I'd learnt to use them. Had built my own support system, my own strategies, my own growing confidence.

The magic had been a transition, not a solution. What remained was human; imperfect, gradual, requiring ongoing effort.

But thoroughly sustainable. Thoroughly real. Thoroughly enough.

Epilogue: Six Months Later

September arrived with that particular crisp quality that meant a new school year. Year 10 now, with new teachers to train, new accommodations to negotiate, and new challenges to navigate.

But I had tools. Experience. Confidence is built on small successes.

The learning profile had been updated and shared with all my new teachers. Most adapted quickly. A few needed reminders, gentle corrections. I'd learnt to advocate without apologising, to explain without shame.

Swimming had become genuinely important to me. I'd placed second in a summer championship and was training for regionals again. Mr Harrison said I might even make nationals if I kept improving.

"You've found your thing," Grace says one lunch in the library. Our quiet trio, me, Grace, and Marcus, had become an established fixture.

"Swimming's not really my thing," I say. "It's just... compatible. Like us. Like this." I gestured at our table, the peaceful silence between bites of sandwich, the companionable reading.

"Compatible is better than passionate," Marcus observed. "Passion burns out. Compatibility sustains."

We met most Saturdays now, at museums, botanical gardens, and quiet cafés. My family had met Marcus's family, recognised the same understanding in them.

The gallery remained my space. I visited regularly; not for guidance anymore, but because it felt right to maintain it. I'd continued adding to my notebook, documenting experiences and strategies. Some entries were practical: Mrs Chen in English accepts written responses without making a big deal of it; very effective. Others were more reflective: Today, I realised I don't think of my silence as a problem anymore. It's just how I function.

I'd added my bronze medal to the alcove of achievements, next to that Victorian third-place medal. My contribution to the collection. Evidence that another quiet person had navigated successfully.

Gran visited the gallery sometimes, too. She'd taken to leaving her own notes; observations about the house's history, memories of her childhood. Adding her voice to the archive.

"This space feels important," she'd say once. "Like a chapel, almost. But for quiet people. A place that honours different ways of being."

"That's exactly what it is," I'd agreed.

One Saturday in October, nearly eighteen months after discovering the Snibbit, I brought Grace and Marcus back to the gallery.

We crawled through the passage, still tight, still requiring effort. The house never returned to magical accommodation. The space was what it was now, no adjustments.

In the gallery, I showed them the additions I'd made. My documentation had grown substantially. New entries about navigating Year 10, about swimming competitions, about conversations with teachers and strategies that worked.

"You're really doing it," Grace says, reading through recent pages. "Building on what the Snibbit started. Creating a resource for whoever finds this next."

Marcus was examining the organisational system, noting how I'd integrated my modern documentation with Eleanor's Victorian journal and all the other historical fragments. "It's comprehensive now. Covers over a century of experiences. Anyone discovering this would have extensive evidence that selective mutism and similar communication differences are long-standing human variations, not modern phenomena or individual failings."

"That's the point," I say. "The Snibbit showed me I wasn't alone across time. Now I'm making sure the next person knows they aren't either."

We sat together in the warm lamplight, three friends who'd found each other because of, not despite, their differences.

"Do you think the Snibbit might come back?" Grace asks. "For someone else?"

"Maybe," I says. "If someone needs it the way I did. But I hope... I hope they find it a little easier than I did. Because of what's been documented. Because the archive is bigger now."

"Incremental improvement across generations," Marcus says. "Each person who documents makes it easier for the next."

"Exactly."

That evening, alone in the gallery one more time before dinner, I opened my notebook to a fresh page and wrote:

Eighteen months since I discovered the Snibbit. The creature is gone, but its lessons persist.

I've learnt: Find compatible people. Set clear boundaries. Request specific accommodations. Document your experiences. Celebrate efforts rather than demanding perfection. Build on your actual capabilities instead of wishing for different ones. Remember, you're part of a long history of people who navigated similar challenges.

I've found: Friends who understand without explanation. Teachers who adapt. Activities where my particular ways of functioning are assets rather than limitations. A family that believes and supports. Spaces where quiet is valued.

School is manageable now. Not easy, some days are still hard, some situations still trigger shutdowns. But I have strategies. I know what I need and how to ask for it. I have people who understand and support rather than pressure me to change.

Swimming gave me something I'm genuinely good at. The library trio gave me friendship that doesn't require constant performance. The learning profile gave me formal recognition that my needs are legitimate. And this gallery, this archive of quiet voices, gives me a connection to people across time who navigated similar paths.

The Snibbit taught me all of that; not through direct instruction, but by showing me historical proof that quiet people have always existed, always found ways, always mattered.

To whoever finds this next: You're not alone. Not across time, not in your struggles, not in your particular way of being. People before you navigated similar difficulties. People after you will too. Your challenges are real, but they're survivable.

Find your allies. Build your strategies. Document your journey. Trust that accommodation is wisdom, not weakness. And remember that different doesn't mean deficient.

The Snibbit taught me that. Eleanor taught me that. All the voices in this archive taught me that.

And now I'm teaching you.

Leo, October 2025

I closed the notebook and placed it beside Eleanor's journal. Two voices, a century apart, saying the same essential thing: You can navigate this. Others have. You're not alone.

Outside, the September evening was settling into dusk. The passage would be tight and uncomfortable going back, as it always was now. But I could manage it.

I turned off the lamp, took one last look around the gallery; this chapel for quiet people, this archive of survival strategies, this evidence that accommodation and understanding weren't miracles but practical tools used successfully across generations.

Then I crawled back toward the sounds of family and food and ordinary life.

The Snibbit had shown me the path. But I was walking it myself now, with real support and practical strategies and growing confidence.

And that, ultimately, was exactly as it should be.

The magic had been a transition, not a solution. What remained was human; imperfect, gradual, requiring ongoing effort.

But thoroughly sustainable. Thoroughly real. Thoroughly enough.

I emerged into the front room, replaced the skirting board carefully, and headed upstairs for dinner.

Tomorrow would bring new navigation; some easy, some challenging. But I had evidence now that difficult things were survivable, that quiet people could thrive in their own ways, that different was valid.

The Snibbit had taught me that.

And I would carry those lessons forward into whatever came next, one accommodated step at a time, building on what worked, documenting for those who'd come after, continuing the conversation across time.

The archive would be here, waiting. The voices would persist. The evidence would remain.

For the next quiet person who needed to know they weren't alone.

For the next child who found comfort in silence and beauty in observation.

For the next Leo, whenever they might appear.

The gallery would be ready.