A short story by Ezra Nadav

Pip the Squirrel loved many things about his little oak hallow home in Willow Glen — the view of the river, the smell of pine needles on windy mornings, the way the branches creaked like old friends whispering secrets.

But today, Pip was worried.

He had misplaced something precious: a tiny acorn carving his grandmother had made for him long ago. It was smooth from years of being held, with a small swirl carved into the top. Pip kept it on a shelf beside his leaf journal… or at least, he thought he did.

He searched his book filled hallow once, then twice, then backwards, then sideways — lifting cushions, peering under rugs, and even checking his biscuit tin (you never know).

But the acorn wasn’t there.

Pip’s chest felt tight.

What if it’s gone forever?

As the sun dipped low, turning the Willow Glen copper and amber, Pip climbed down the tree and headed into the dusk.

“Maybe the forest remembers,” he whispered.

The path glowed faintly with leftover light. Fireflies drifted lazily, flickering like tiny stars learning how to shine. Pip walked slowly, unsure where to begin — until he noticed one firefly glowing brighter than the rest.

She hovered near his paw, shy and quiet, carrying a lantern no bigger than a raindrop. The lantern glowed warm gold.

“Hello,” Pip said softly. “I’m Pip.”

The firefly dipped her light in greeting. “I’m Luma,” she replied in a gentle, tinkling voice. “You’re searching for something meaningful… aren’t you?”

Pip nodded. “A carved acorn. My grandmother made it for me.”

The lantern in Luma’s hands brightened.

“Then we’ll look together,” she said.

Pip blinked. “Together?”

Luma’s wings fluttered nervously. “That’s what my lantern does. It glows brightest when someone is searching for something they love.”

With that, she floated toward the edge of the path. “Come. The forest has places that remember.”

Pip followed.

They visited the Hollow Log of Forgotten Snacks, where small creatures often lost half-eaten berries (and occasionally whole breakfasts).

No acorn.

They checked the Bend of Old Questions, a spot where the river curved and reflected the sky just right — a place where animals came to think.

Still no acorn.

Finally, Luma led Pip to a quiet clearing Pip didn’t recognise. Ferns bowed softly, and moss glowed faintly under the lantern’s light.

“This,” Luma whispered, “is one of the remembering places. Here, the forest shows us not what we lost, but what we’re holding onto too tightly.”

Pip sat down, unsure.

“I just… I don’t want to forget her,” he said, voice small.

Luma settled beside him. “You won’t,” she assured him. “Love doesn’t live in objects. It lives in how we carry the people we miss.”

Pip sighed, letting the truth of it settle like falling leaves.

Then — warmth.

The lantern shimmered and cast a soft circle of gold at Pip’s feet.

There, nestled between two roots, was the tiny carved acorn.

Pip gasped. “But… how did it get here?”

Luma smiled. “Sometimes the forest keeps things safe until we’re ready to see what they mean.”

Pip lifted the acorn gently.

It felt just as he remembered — smooth, familiar, filled with love.

“Thank you, Luma,” he whispered.

Luma’s lantern glowed warmer. “You were brave,” she said. “Brave enough to look, and brave enough to feel.”

Pip tucked the acorn close to his chest. After a moment, he breathed in deeply — that slow, steady kind of breath that feels like a decision.

“I think… I want to write this down,” he said. “Not just finding the acorn. The whole thing — you, the remembering places, everything the forest taught me tonight.”

Luma tilted her head. “For your leaf journal?”

Pip smiled. “For that — and maybe for the Library of Leaves too. Some moments shouldn’t stay small. They should be shared.”

Luma’s glow brightened like a nod.

Together, they walked back through the quiet forest — Pip carrying his grandmother’s acorn, and Luma carrying her lantern of lost things.

When they reached his oak tree, Pip paused.

“Would you… stay while I write?” he asked. “Stories shine brighter when someone witnesses them.”

Luma hovered near his shoulder, shy but pleased. “I’d like that.”

Pip climbed inside, lit a tiny honeycomb candle, and opened a fresh leaf page.

And as Luma’s lantern cast a gentle circle of gold across the hallow, Pip began to write — not just about finding what was lost, but discovering what was worth holding onto, and the unexpected friends who help us find our way.

Outside, the forest listened softly.

Inside, Pip wrote the night into memory.

Library of Leaves Entry

Filed under: Remembering, Lanterns, Small Braveries

Written by Pip Squirrel, late evening, lantern-lit

The Lantern of Lost Things

Tonight I learned that not all lost things are gone.

I misplaced the carved acorn my grandmother made for me — a small thing, but full of stories and warmth. I searched everywhere I knew to look, until I finally wandered into the dusk, hoping the forest might remember what I had forgotten.

There I met Luma, a firefly with a lantern the size of a raindrop and a heart even brighter. Her lantern glows strongest when someone is searching for something meaningful. She told me the forest keeps remembering places — quiet corners where memories settle like soft moss, waiting.

We searched together, not just with our eyes, but with the parts of ourselves that feel.

In one of those remembering clearings, the forest returned my acorn to me. But it also returned something else: the reminder that love doesn’t live in objects. It lives in how we carry those we miss, and in the courage it takes to keep looking even when we’re unsure.

Luma said I was brave. I don’t know if that’s true. But I do know this:

Sometimes what we think we’ve lost brings us to exactly where we needed to go — and to the friends we didn’t know we were meant to meet.

I’ll keep the acorn on my shelf.

But I’ll keep the lesson here, on this leaf, for anyone who needs it.

— Pip

The End.

For Now…