Deep in the autumn wood, where leaves carpeted the ground in gold, a little bird hopped beneath the roots of an ancient oak.
Among the leaves, something peeked out — a tiny house, half-buried and waiting. The little bird tapped the door with her beak.
The door creaked open. A gust of cold air rushed out, whistling through the little house like a winter song.
She fluffed her feathers, then stepped inside. The little house was small, but dry and snug.
She found a moss cushion in the corner and patted it flat. But the quiet felt strange — a little too empty for comfort.
"Maybe," she thought, "it just needs someone to call it home."
She hop-scotted across the floor, gathering fallen leaves. She tucked them behind the cushion and along the walls.
When she curled up at last, the little house didn't feel empty anymore. It felt like hers.
