par Bill Tiepelman
Tiny Dreams in Pink
The box had been sitting on the mantle for weeks, part of the festive chaos that overtook Claire’s apartment every December. She wasn’t one for minimalist decor; if it didn’t sparkle, twinkle, or threaten to shed glitter for decades, it wasn’t welcome. The ornament box, pink and intricately designed, had been a thrift store find, but Claire swore it carried the soul of a bygone Christmas miracle. She just hadn’t expected the miracle to have whiskers. It started on a Tuesday. Claire had been sipping her third cup of cocoa—this one generously spiked with Baileys—and debating whether she could survive another Zoom meeting disguised as holiday cheer. The meeting was supposed to be about 'end-of-year strategic planning,' but Claire’s mind was elsewhere: on the holiday playlist, the pile of wrapping paper gathering dust, and her unrelenting desire to put on a Christmas movie marathon instead of tackling any more reports. That’s when she saw it: a tiny, impossibly fluffy creature curled up in the ornament box on her mantle. It was a mouse, no larger than a walnut, nestled snugly in the soft pink knit blanket she’d stuffed inside for decoration. Its tiny pink nose twitched in rhythm with its slow, peaceful breaths. “Well, aren’t you just the freeloading spirit of Christmas,” Claire muttered, setting her mug down. “You realize rent’s due in two weeks, right?” The mouse didn’t respond, obviously, but the faintest squeak escaped its tiny mouth, almost as if it were dreaming. Claire stared, torn between the adult responsibility of calling pest control and the childlike wonder of seeing a real, honest-to-goodness mouse peacefully napping in a box that looked like it belonged in a Victorian fairy tale. She opted for wonder. And maybe a second Baileys. The next day, the mouse was still there, nestled so deeply in its makeshift bed that Claire could almost hear a tiny snore. She had no idea how it had gotten in—her apartment was on the fourth floor, and the windows had been sealed tight for the winter—but it didn’t seem interested in leaving. If anything, it looked like it had settled in for a long winter's nap. Against her better judgment, Claire left a crumb of her morning croissant near the box, half-expecting it to vanish by lunch. It did. And by dinner, the mouse had acquired a name: Bernard. Because obviously, a mouse with that much attitude deserved a distinguished name. By Friday, Bernard was no longer just a mouse; he was Claire’s confidant. She vented to him about her boss, her ex-boyfriend’s Instagram-worthy proposal to someone else, and the existential crisis she faced every time she ran out of eggnog. Bernard, to his credit, listened intently, occasionally tilting his tiny head as if he truly understood the complexities of late-capitalist holiday burnout. “You know, Bernard,” Claire said one evening as she stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth, “sometimes I feel like I’m just a character in one of those holiday rom-coms, trying to find some sort of magical Christmas miracle. But my miracle seems to be an overworked HR department and a mouse who thinks my apartment is a luxury hotel.” Bernard squeaked in response, perhaps giving his approval. Or perhaps he was just hungry. She wasn’t sure. One night, as Claire lay on the couch watching her fiftieth Hallmark movie of the season—because nothing screamed ‘holiday cheer’ like predictable plotlines and excessive cinnamon spice—she noticed Bernard had started collecting treasures. Next to his box, there was now a shiny penny, a stray earring, and—most inexplicably—a single Lego brick. She had no idea where he’d found it. She hadn’t owned Legos in years. Still, Bernard seemed proud of his stash, and Claire found herself oddly touched. It was like he was trying to repay her hospitality in the only way he knew how: by looting the apartment. The treasures piled up. There were bits of shiny foil from chocolate wrappers, a bottle cap, a paperclip, and a single red bead. “You know, Bernard, you’ve got a better collection than my ex-boyfriend did,” Claire laughed, rolling her eyes as she noticed a glittering star sticker among the loot. “You might even be better at it than I am. I still can’t figure out how to decorate a tree without it looking like a disaster.” As Christmas approached, Claire found herself talking less to the friends she used to Zoom with and more to Bernard. She even made him a tiny Santa hat out of red felt, which he tolerated for all of ten seconds before shaking it off with dramatic indignation. “Fine,” she told him, laughing. “I’ll just wear it myself, you little diva.” By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, Claire had grown somewhat attached to the little rodent. She set out a feast: cheese shavings, a cracker crumb, and a thimbleful of eggnog. Bernard, looking dapper in his self-appointed ‘winter’ fur coat, emerged from his box, stretching like a tiny king after a long day’s rest, and indulged in the holiday spread. Claire raised her own glass of wine in his honor. “To Bernard,” she said, “the most unexpected gift of the season.” That night, as the snow fell softly outside, Claire found herself feeling something she hadn’t in years: contentment. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the twinkling lights. Or maybe it was Bernard, snuggled in his pink box, reminding her that magic didn’t have to be big or loud—it could be as small as a mouse with a penchant for Legos and a cozy place to call home. She picked up the tiny knit blanket she’d made for him earlier, adjusting it carefully. It was the least she could do for a guest who had so thoroughly transformed her holiday. As Claire drifted off to sleep that night, she thought about how peculiar the holidays had become. They weren’t about grandiose gestures or perfect moments, but the small things—the little conversations with a mouse who didn’t judge her, the weird little treasure collections, and the fact that, for the first time in a long while, she felt truly at home. If that wasn’t magic, she didn’t know what was. And that, Claire thought as she snuggled under her own blanket, was enough. 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