Jonah had never spent a night at the Whitmore Arms, and every whispered warning in the village had done nothing to convince him otherwise. Tales of flickering candlelight revealing unseen faces, doors that slammed shut on their own, and shadows that moved against the grain of the walls were supposed to frighten him — but he was stubborn.
When he checked in, a tiny Siamese keychain dangled from his coat pocket. It had been a gift from the Velvette Library’s curious caretaker, who simply said, “Take him with you. He’s… useful.” Jonah had laughed it off, tucking the keychain safely inside.
The first hour in the inn was deceptive. The halls were eerily silent. Chandeliers swayed as if stirred by unseen hands, and every ticking clock seemed to echo like footsteps down the corridors. Then came a soft, deliberate thump — the sound of tiny paws, too precise and measured to be coincidence.
Jonah froze. In the dim light by the staircase, he saw the Siamese figure perched on the railing, its silver charms glinting faintly. Mr. Fuzz’s eyes glowed like embers, and for reasons Jonah couldn’t explain, he felt watched yet somehow protected.
Minutes stretched into hours. The inn groaned and whispered around him. Doors creaked open, shadows shifted, and the wind rattled the windows. Each time a shadow moved too close, Jonah’s gaze found Mr. Fuzz — on the dresser, on the bedpost, sometimes dangling from his coat pocket — always alert, always waiting.
Somewhere around midnight, Jonah found himself in the library room. Books lined the walls in haphazard piles, dust motes floating in the flickering candlelight. A book slid off a shelf, but before it could hit the floor, Mr. Fuzz’s paw flicked it aside, as if reminding Jonah: “I’ve got this.”
When the first hints of dawn crept through the curtains, Jonah noticed the keychain lying on the dresser, its tiny charms catching the light like a silent blessing. He smiled, knowing the inn hadn’t defeated him — he had survived, guided by a guardian small, quiet, and completely unexpected.
Jonah left the Whitmore Arms that morning with one certainty: some guardians watch from the shadows, some from the shelves, and Mr. Fuzz approves.
