(Filed under: Fieldcraft origins, Faith & Clove)
There was once a small white mouse who lived in the breast pocket of a boy too old for fairytales but just young enough to need them.
The mouse’s name was Clove.
(He chose it himself. He said it tasted like winter and courage.)
Clove was no ordinary mouse. He had one bent ear from an incident involving a toaster and a stripe of gray on his tail where he once wrote a spell in ink.
He didn’t squeak, he whispered. Advice, mostly. Snarky comments. The occasional bad joke about cheese.
But more often, he reminded the boy that he was not alone.
Some days, the boy didn’t talk to anyone else.Just Clove. And that was okay. Because Clove listened like it mattered. And he never asked for anything in return except to stay close and maybe nibble a corner of his math homework now and then.
When the world felt too loud, the boy would press a hand to his chest—
just over the pocket—
and feel Clove’s tiny heartbeat thudding like a drum, reminding him:
“You’re still here. And so am I. And we’ve survived every single day so far.”