The Puddle of Moonlight

Episode 11: The Puddle of Moonlight

The night after the spectacular Knit Parade, Knittyville felt hushed and glowy, like someone had tucked a silver blanket over the rooftops. Tangle the kitten pressed her nose to Granny Myrtle’s window. The enchanted ball of yarn on the sill hummed the faintest melody, like a teacup singing when it’s just the right temperature.
Jasper the clever mouse popped up beside her, whiskers twitching. “Do you hear that? It sounds like a lullaby with tiny sparkles.”
Granny Myrtle adjusted her spectacles and smiled. “That would be moon, mending music. The yarn must still be full of stories.”
They slipped out into the cool night. Dew pearled on the garden leaves, and the cobblestones looked like they’d been polished by stars. Halfway down Waffle Stitch Lane, Tangle stopped. In the dip where rain usually gathered, there was a puddle that didn’t mirror the lampposts or their faces. Instead, it shimmered with a sky deeper than any night—an upside-down pool of drifting constellations.
Jasper peered over the edge. “That puddle is… wearing the moon!”
Granny Myrtle kneaded the enchanted yarn between her palms. It warmed and glowed, threads brightening to a soft lunar blue. “A moon, puddle, ” she whispered. “They say if you knit it just so, you can mend a tear in the night.”
“A tear?” Tangle’s ears perked.
Granny pointed. Above the clock tower, there was the slightest snag in the sky, a loose stitch of darkness where stars slipped and sputtered. The town’s shadows seemed a smidge too long, as if bedtime had been stretched past cozy.
Tangle squared her tiny shoulders. “We can fix it!”
Granny cast on with the enchanted yarn, the needles clicking like sleepy crickets. Jasper held the skein steady, and Tangle batted the end into perfect loops. With each stitch, the moon puddle quivered, sending ripples of silver toward the snag. The ripples climbed the air like gentle ladders.
But the night had ideas of its own. A breeze gathered, soft and curious. From the hedges and rooftops, out came Knittyville’s nocturnal neighbors: Mimo the moth with crescent, dust wings, Lottie the barn owl with a voice like soft leather turning pages, and a shy hedgehog named Prickle, who wore a thimble as a helmet.
“We felt the pull, ” Lottie hooted. “Night is asking for a patch.”
“Patches are my favorite!” squeaked Prickle, hopping in place.
Mimo fluttered over the moon, puddle, dusting it with pale shimmer. The puddle brightened, revealing not just stars but threads of silver, midnight, and a hint of bluebell. Granny changed patterns mid row, hands moving like memory. “Stockinette won’t hold. We need moss stitch, something that hugs.”
Jasper nodded very thoughtfully for such a small mouse. “Moss stitch hugs. Noted.”
The enchanted yarn sang louder, and the puddle rose, no longer water but a sheet of moonlight fabric, soft as a sigh. Tangle leapt and caught a corner between her paws. Granny and Jasper gathered the rest, with Lottie guiding from above.
They floated up to the snag, all of Knittyville hushed, curtains barely parted as neighbors watched the strange procession: a kitten, a mouse, a granny, an owl, a moth, and a hedgehog, carrying the night like a quilt.
At the tear, a sliver of elsewhere peeked through, orchard sweet and faraway, a place that smelled like apples and rain. Tangle’s whiskers tingled. “Hello, Elsewhere, ” she murmured. “We’re just mending. You’re beautiful.”
She placed the patch. Granny’s needles made their soft tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck, and Jasper threaded the edges with tiny patience. Mimo pressed the corners with moon, dust. Prickle tapped the border with his thimble helmet, setting the stitches like buttons. Lottie hummed a lullaby only owls remember.
The tear drew closed. The stars settled back into their constellations, brighter and somehow closer, as if grateful. The moon gave a plump, contented glow.
Down on Waffle Stitch Lane, the moon, puddle became, simply, a puddle again, reflecting lampposts, faces, and one very proud hedgehog. The enchanted yarn cooled to a gentle glow in Granny’s hands.
Jasper exhaled. “We patched the night.”
“We did, ” Granny said softly. “And it will hold, so long as we keep listening for loose stitches.”
Tangle gazed up. High above, a brand-new constellation winked into being a tiny mouse, a tidy thimble, a moth’s wings, a wise owl, and, centered proudly, a cat curled like a comma. She grinned. “That’s our secret signature.”
They walked home in the hush before dawn, paws and feet and little prickly steps clicking softly on the stone. Back at the window, the enchanted yarn settled in its bowl, faintly humming. Tangle curled on Granny’s lap; Jasper tucked into the curve of her tail. Prickle napped beneath a tea cozy, and Mimo and Lottie drifted toward the silvered sky.
Granny Myrtle stroked Tangle’s ears. “Magic’s a patient craft, ” she whispered. “It isn’t just made, it’s mended.”
Knittyville slept a little deeper that day, comforted by a sky that fit just right, and by the knowledge that if anything ever came unraveled, friends and a good yarn could stitch it back together again.

To be continued…