Blink. Blink. Blink. The tiny signal on the Bureau desk stutters, then goes dark. Two fox-cubs stare at the empty glow. Somewhere in the mist, it was calling.
Pip slings her satchel over one shoulder. "Something's calling," she says, already at the door. The two fox-cubs watch, ears flat.
The fog swallows the forest path whole. White eats the trees, the roots, the sky. No sound but drip, drip, drip from the canopy.
Two fox-cubs stop at the tree line, tails tucked tight. Pip's paws slide on wet moss as she pushes past. The tinny signal is far behind.
The mist soaks through her fur. Pip squeaks, shakes, and steps deeper into the white nothing. No sound. No landmark. Just fog and the drip of wet leaves.
Pip crouches in the hollow. There, tumbling in a small circle, a ghostly firefly bobs — completely dark. No glow. It spins and spins and falls.
The firefly sneezes one tiny spark. Pop. Dark again. Pip scoops it up — heavier than it looks — and it blinks up at her, lost and small. "Oh," she whispers.
On a flat stone, Pip opens her satchel. Wire. A scrap of clear shell. Two dry twigs. She bends the wire into a ring, threads the shell, tucks the twigs in. Her paws tremble a little.
She cups the tiny lantern under the firefly's dark belly. One match. Strike. The wick catches, and the firefly pulses — faint blue, then gold — climbing out, rising.
Above the canopy, a hundred tiny lights answer. The mist thins, pulls back, lets the stars through. Pip stands still, watching it go. Then she pulls her satchel tight and walks home.