Ava and the Rustle

"There's something in my closet," said Ava, pulling the blanket up to her nose.

It was bedtime. The lamp was on. Ava wanted one thing, and that was to fall asleep. But the closet kept making a sound.

Rustle, rustle, rustle.

Ava looked at the closet door. It was open just a crack. She did not want to open it more. She did not want to close it either.

First, she tried talking. "Hello?" she said. The rustling stopped. Then it started again. Rustle, rustle, rustle.

Next, she tried being brave. She tiptoed over in her socks and said, "Whoever you are, please be quiet." Rustle, went the closet, a little louder, as if it had not heard her at all.

Ava went back to bed. She sat very still and listened. This time she did not listen for a scary sound. She listened for what kind of sound it was.

Rustle, rustle. Pause. Crinkle. Rustle, rustle.

"That's a crinkly sound," she whispered. "Like paper."

Ava thought hard. Then she remembered her backpack. Earlier, she had tucked a cookie inside, wrapped in a paper napkin. She had meant to save it for tomorrow.

She crept to the closet and slowly pulled the door open.

There, on the floor, sat her backpack. The zipper was open. A small gray mouse stood inside it with the napkin in its paws, and a cookie crumb on its nose.

The mouse looked up at Ava. Ava looked down at the mouse.

"Oh," said Ava. "It's you."

The mouse had come for the cookie. That was all. It held the napkin tight and did not move.

Ava giggled. She broke the cookie in half and put one piece on the floor. The other piece she kept for herself.

Nibble, nibble, went the mouse.

Ava climbed back into bed and left the closet door open a crack. She heard the soft rustle, and then the tiny nibbling, and then, slowly, nothing at all but her own breathing, slow and warm under the blanket.