The winter night was like a huge velvet blanket, gently covering the entire forest. Snowflakes danced quietly outside the window, and Oliver the little mouse curled up on the soft cushion in his tree hollow, surrounded by the woolen blanket his mother had knitted and the old pocket watch his father had left behind. His tummy growled, sounding like a distant little train blowing its whistle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom,\u201d Oliver whispered, \u201cI\u2019d love some bread with strawberry jam.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom put down her needle and thread and gently stroked his head. \u201cSweetheart, it\u2019s too cold outside, and the bakery is already closed. But you could give Aunt Bella a call\u2014she lives on Pinecone Lane, and she always bakes little treats before bedtime.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oliver\u2019s eyes lit up. He hopped off the cushion and ran to the little red telephone in the corner. It was a gift Dad had brought back from the human town last winter; the receiver looked like a ripe cherry, and the dial was printed with tiny star patterns. He stood on tiptoe and gently dialed the numbers with his little pink paws: 1, 2, 3\u2026 A soft \u201cring-ring\u201d came from the phone, like wind chimes singing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHello?\u201d Aunt Bella\u2019s warm voice came from the other end, carrying the sweet scent wafting from the oven. \u201cIs that Oliver? It\u2019s so late\u2014are you craving my little cookies?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oliver\u2019s cheeks were rosy, like freshly picked wild berries: \u201cAuntie, I\u2026 I\u2019d like some strawberry jam bread. Is that okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOf course!\u201d Aunt Bella\u2019s laughter sounded like melting butter. \u201cI just baked a whole batch\u2014it\u2019s still warm. But it\u2019s snowing heavily outside, so why don\u2019t you ask your dad to come with you to pick it up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay!\u201d Oliver nodded vigorously. When he hung up the phone, a hint of jam scent\u2014from where his nose had brushed against the receiver\u2014still lingered on the receiver. He spun around, holding the phone close, the fuzzy wool blanket brushing against his cheek, soft as a cloud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dad looked up from behind his desk, his glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose. \u201cWas that Aunt Bella? She always remembers what our family likes.\u201d He set down the book he was holding and took Oliver\u2019s little hand. \u201cCome on, my little foodie, let\u2019s go pick up our \u2018Winter Night Delight.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They pushed open the door of the treehouse. Snowflakes landed on the tip of Oliver\u2019s nose\u2014cool to the touch, yet not cold at all. The streetlights on Pinecone Lane glowed with a warm yellow light, like a string of stars hanging in the night sky. An orange glow shone through Aunt Bella\u2019s window, and the oven\u2019s \u201cding\u201d sounded just then, like a gentle lullaby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOliver, here\u2019s your bread!\u201d Aunt Bella opened the door, holding a small basket tied with a red ribbon. The aroma of bread mingled with the sweetness of strawberries, drifting through the cold air like a warm thread. She crouched down and pressed the basket into Oliver\u2019s arms. \u201cRemember to eat it while it\u2019s hot\u2014it won\u2019t taste as good once it cools down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oliver buried his face in the bread; the sweet scent of jam filled his nostrils, like a lullaby hummed by his mother. He looked up at Aunt Bella, then at his dad. The light from the streetlamp fell on them, stretching their shadows long and thin, like three little suns huddled close together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the way home, Oliver clutched the bread basket tightly, his footsteps as light as if he were walking on cotton. He thought of Aunt Bella\u2019s voice on the phone, of his dad holding his hand, and of the coolness of snowflakes landing on the tip of his nose\u2014it turned out that winter nights weren\u2019t just about the cold; they also held the sweet scent hidden in the phone lines, the warmth beneath the streetlights, and the peace of mind found in the company of family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Back at the tree hollow, Oliver placed the bread on the table and burrowed under the woolen blanket. Mom tucked the blanket around him, and Dad sat on the edge of the bed, softly recounting the story of the first time he\u2019d made a phone call as a child. Oliver closed his eyes; the sweet scent of bread still lingered on his nose, and the \u201cring-ring\u201d of the phone had turned into the sound of wind chimes in his dream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood night, my little star.\u201d Mom kissed his forehead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood night, Dad. Good night, Mom,\u201d Oliver whispered, a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Snow was still falling outside the window, but inside the treehouse, it was as warm as spring. Oliver knew that when he woke up tomorrow, the sweet scent of bread would become a new story, the warmth from the phone call would become new courage, and the cold of the winter night would forever be melted by love into the softest of dreams.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The Little Mouse Makes a Phone Call<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":809,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[15],"tags":[21,18],"class_list":["post-807","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-children","tag-children","tag-story"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/807","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=807"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/807\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":810,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/807\/revisions\/810"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/809"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=807"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=807"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=807"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}