Before I tell you this tale, you must promise to sit very still—tail curled, paws folded, ears tilted just so—for this is the kind of story that tiptoes in on the breeze and disappears if you make too much of a fuss.

Have I ever told you how Mirth the Mouse once flew all the way to the Land of Dreams on the back of a single dandelion seed? No? Then curl close, and I shall whisper it into your waiting ears.

In the Glen, where the grass grows soft and the flowers bow politely to passing butterflies, there is a field. Not just any field, mind you, but a meadow, and that makes all the difference. A field is useful, but a meadow is magical. And in this meadow, there were a million delicate globes of white dandelion fluff—each one a tiny parachute waiting for a brave soul to leap aboard.

This is where Mirth came most mornings, for Mirth was a dreaming sort of mouse. She wore a cloak the colour of sunrise and had whiskers so fine they could tickle the breeze. Her favourite spot was beneath Old Oak, who had been growing steadily since the days when clouds still wore ribbons. She would settle at the base of his trunk, close her eyes, and drift into the kind of dreams you don’t want to wake from.

Now, it so happened that on one such morning, Time, who has no watch but always knows when it’s tea time, arrived for his usual inspection. He strolled in quietly—because Time always does—his robe woven from yesterday’s hours and tomorrow’s maybes.

“Hello, Everyday,” said he, bowing to a stately figure who stood with her hands folded and her spectacles perched neatly on the end of her nose. This was Mrs Everyday, who wore sensible shoes and saw everything that happened in the meadow, even the secret sighs of buttercups.

“Hello, Time,” said Everyday, with a nod like the ticking of a gentle clock. “The bees are busy, the breeze is kind, and little Mirth is dreaming again.”

“A good dream, I trust?” asked Time, for he was terribly fond of dreams.

“A very good one,” Everyday replied, for she had peeked inside (just a little) and smiled.

And now, Best Beloved, let us peek inside too, if you promise not to sneeze—because dandelion seeds are terribly ticklish.

In her dream, Mirth was an explorer of the highest order, no less than Captain Mirth, Dream-Adventurer, sailing through the sky on a single brave seed. Her paws held tight to the stem, and the wind—who is quite the tour guide—carried her high over the Glen, above hedgerows and honeybees, all the way to the edge of the known nap.

She passed a hive where the bees were dancing their directions.

“Hello, Mirth!” buzzed the bees. “Off somewhere splendid?”

“To the Land of Dreams!” she called back.

“Mind the dragonflies,” warned a bee with an admiral’s moustache. “They fly sideways when excited.”

Mirth saluted and sailed on, over silver rivers where the fish leapt like punctuation marks in a joyful story.

“Where are you headed?” called the fish, mid-leap.

“To the place where flowers never fade and the sun never forgets to shine,” said Mirth.

“Bring us back a tale!” they cried, flipping somersaults of approval.

At last, the wind placed her ever so gently in a meadow unlike any she had ever seen. The flowers there spoke in perfume, and in the very centre stood a single golden dandelion, bigger than a teapot and brighter than a wish.

“Welcome, Mirth,” said a voice that sounded like starlight on water. It was Dreams herself, wrapped in a gown made of soft night and stitched with tiny galaxies. Her hair flowed like the edge of sleep, and her smile could quiet a storm.

“You have come far,” said Dreams. “What have you learnt?”

Mirth thought with all her tiny might. “I have learnt that the world is vast and marvellous, and that each day is a story waiting to be told.”

Dreams nodded wisely, for she already knew. “Then it is time to go back, little one, and tell your tale. The field is waiting.”

So Mirth, with a heart full of wonder, floated gently home on the same seed that brought her. She awoke beneath Old Oak, blinked at the dancing dandelion fluff, and smiled.

Time and Everyday shared a quiet glance—the sort that says all is well.

And that, Best Beloved, is why if you ever see a little mouse smiling at nothing in particular, or a dandelion seed doing a loop-the-loop, you mustn’t interrupt. She’s dreaming, and in dreams, she finds the magic that helps her greet each day with a story in her heart.

And perhaps—just perhaps—so might you.