Pip chased a blue butterfly past the safe path and over a mossy log. Deeper and deeper into the ancient oaks. Past the last glowing mushroom.
Pip stopped. Looked back. The cottage glow was gone — swallowed by dark trees. Something clicked against their nose.
Pip walked forward. The path disappeared under orange-brown leaves. They sniffed — damp earth, wild berries — but no cottage smell.
An owl landed on a low branch above. Blinking big yellow eyes. "Lost?" the owl asked.
Pip nodded. Followed the owl deeper into the woods. Wind whispered through the branches and their ears flattened.
They hopped over three roots. Past two glowing mushrooms. Then the trees began to thin.
The owl took flight with a soft rush of wings. Pip saw it — an orange glow between the trunks.
Pip ran. Through the last gap of trees — and skidded to a halt.
The cottage window glowed warm yellow. Two fluffy tails wagged on the doorstep.
Pip's family rushed forward. Pip burrowed into the softest fur. The fire crackled.
Warm fur. Safe. Home.
Inside, the fire crackled. And Pip was home.