By dusk the apple tree had grown a second hush. In the hollow, the dormice opened a library of dreams, and the only rule was one warm dream per guest until morning.
We asked at the kiosk by the orchard gate. A man with a paper bag of windfalls said his nights had been quieter since Tuesday. They take one dream, he told us. The keeper gives a bookmark of bark. You are asked to bring the morning back a little kinder than you found it.
The keeper of the hollow pinned a note to the bark: loans begin after the kettle has finished, pages are turned at a whisper, and nobody is to hurry a dream that is still choosing its last sentence.
The next evening a neighbor returned with the same bookmark, just to hear the hollow say goodnight again.