Once upon a time, in the forgotten glens of the Whispering Woods, there lived a pixie named Twig. He was no ordinary pixie. While his kin were famed for their delicate wings, their love of dewdrop tea, and their ability to hide inside an acorn cap, Twig was… different.

Twig was trying to sew a tiny saddle for a field mouse who had gotten a thorn in its paw. His huge, clumsy fingers fumbled with the needle made from a pine spine. The mouse squeaked in pain.

Standing almost a foot tall, he was a giant among his kind. His wings, though still iridescent, were as broad as a robin's. His voice, instead of a tinkling chime, was a warm, resonant hum that could rustle the leaves on a branch. The other pixies found him clumsy. He couldn’t ride a bumblebee without it bucking him off. He shattered dew-drop chandeliers with his elbows. He was kind, gentle, and terribly, terribly lonely.

One autumn afternoon, Lily came to the shed to store a basket of fallen apples. She heard a sound—not a squeak, but a soft, low hum , like a cello string being plucked. Peeking behind a broken flowerpot, she saw him.

So Twig left.