The Yellow Treasure
The sun had finally emerged. A little girl with pigtails, Fleur, appeared on the fence.
— Pssst, hey, Ginger! she called to Sirocco. I’m Fleur, your new neighbor.
Anemo lifted her over the fence. Suddenly, a hawk snatched a pigeon. Fleur didn't hesitate; she grabbed the garden hose and blasted the hawk away.
— I said no! she shouted.
The pigeon hid in a narrow gap between the sheds. Fleur crawled inside to save it. But there, she found something else.
— You won't believe what else I found!
It was a collection of yellow objects: gloves, sunglasses, a sunflower brooch, a pipe. Someone—a "collector"—had been building a "spare sun" in the shadows.
— This Fleur gives me a headache, Mistral complained. These women invade everything with their order and disorder!
The little one is interesting and clever! the mouse replied, completely absorbed by the girl's charm.
— It doesn't seem to bother that simpleton Sirocco at all; he has his own whims and dragonflies, and he even rejoices every time this whirlwind brings something to light! Mistral insisted, while Sirocco—now called "the ginger one"—approached step by step, as if drawn by a magnet to the place where all that back-and-forth was unfolding.
— Does the mystery of the yellow gloves deepen, or is it finding its resolution right here under my nose? Anemo mused aloud, when through the opening left between the two yards, a barking furball burst in like a small horde.
— Skye, no! Stay still! a voice called after the bundle, but the noisy little thing grabbed a glove and barked incessantly at Fleur, planting her paws firmly on the prey.
— She’s our puppy, a birthday gift for my wife, Noel apologized. — She’s a Morkie; the noise is bigger than her stature.
— Mr. Noel, Skye wanted to build a spare sun! Don't scold her! Oh, how I love this neighborhood! Fleur added, taking in everyone from both yards—now more united by the gap between them—with one glance, and began to spin like a top.
Anemo pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket, and while the girl spun joyfully accompanied by barking, meowing, growling, and squeaking, he noted:
"Today, the universe sent me a lesson in survival through a seven-year-old with pigtails. While I was philosophizing about literary defeats and salty coffee, Fleur pulled out the hose and declared war on the hawk.
Lesson No. 1: Sometimes, to save something, you have to get your hands dirty in narrow spaces where adults can't fit because of their own pride.
Lesson No. 2: Remi Storm writes that women cannot be tamed, but Fleur demonstrates that they, quite simply, master the storm.
I watch Fleur hugging her sunflower brooch to her chest, her great treasure rediscovered in Skye’s den. There is a purity in her joy that makes me feel ridiculous with my crumpled manuscript under my arm. She recovered her 'sun,' lost during the move, from a tunnel full of spiderwebs.
If a puppy could build a spare sun out of gloves and yellow trinkets under my shed, perhaps I, too, can rebuild something from the remains of the letter Mistral violated. Some things are not permanently lost; they are merely stored in places where we are too lazy or too afraid to crawl on our bellies to retrieve them."
Anemo closed the notebook, while Skye’s barking and Fleur’s laughter transformed the garden into a true playground, free of hypocrisy and grown-up pretenses.
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