Pippa sat very small at her kitchen table, threading a tiny patch with a bent silver needle. The house was quiet. The stitches were tiny. The world was tiny.
THUD-THUD-THUD cracked through the roof. A golden head bumped the window. Whiskers snagged the curtains. Pippa dropped her needle. "Oh."
The unicorn lowered its horn beside her chair—just a little silver ladder. Pippa wiped her palms on her apron. She climbed.
Up, up, up the unicorn galloped, past chimney pots and gutters. The rooftops went blurry. The sky went pink.
"Hup!" Pippa shouted, gripping the horn as they punched straight through a cloud. Wet. Everything was wet.
The rainbow wrapped around them, swirling and humming like a loom mid-knit. The colours tickled Pippa's fingers. She looked down.
Far below, tiny golden threads stretched into every garden, every window, every bed where a child slept. The threads reached further than the whole sky.
Pippa blinked. Those were HER threads—the ones she stitched, tucked under pillows, blew like dandelion seeds. The unicorn snorted a puff of stardust. Her clenched hands slowly opened.
Pippa stepped onto soft grass. Her boots squelched. She stood up tall. The house was still small.
She walked to the door, pushed it wide, and hung a golden thread on the doorknob so anyone could follow it home.