Nora sat on the bench with a new notebook. She had wanted to fill it with something wonderful: perhaps a mountain, or a parade, or a song that everyone knew. But her blue pencil stayed still. The garden held no parade. The mountains were far away. Above her, one birch leaf brushed another. Shrr, shrr. Nora lifted her ears. That sound was small enough to miss, and lovely enough to keep.

She drew a leaf, then a little curling line beside it. The drawing made no sound at all. Nora held the page near her ear to check. Still nothing. Then she smiled. The book did not need to rustle. She could remember the sound when she looked at the leaf. She left plenty of white space around it. A small sound, she thought, should not have to squeeze into a crowded page.

Toma the tortoise came along the path. He opened the garden gate a little way. Creak. Nora looked up. “Would you do that once more?” she asked. Toma moved the gate gently. Creak. “It has a very short song,” said Nora. She drew two posts and a crooked line. Toma leaned closer. “You have drawn a gate,” he said. “Yes,” said Nora, “but I will remember its song.”

They sat on the bench together. A leaf rustled. The gate was still. Then Toma stood up, and his feet made a soft shuffle on the path. Nora added tiny footprints to her book. “What will you draw between them?” asked Toma. Nora listened to the pause after his steps. “Nothing yet,” she said. “I like having room to wait.” Toma nodded. He waved goodnight, and Nora watched him go slowly along the familiar path.

At home, Mum was folding back the blue quilt. Nora put her scarf on its peg and climbed into bed with the notebook. “I brought a leaf, a gate and Toma’s footsteps,” she said. Mum looked at the drawings. “They fit in a very small book.” Nora turned a page. “But I could not bring the space between the sounds.” Mum sat beside her. Neither of them spoke for a moment. “Perhaps you have brought a little of that too,” Mum said.

Nora touched the leaf drawing. In her mind she heard shrr, shrr. She touched the gate and remembered its tiny creak. After the footprints came a clean, empty page. She did not reach for her pencil. There would be other evenings and other things to notice. Nora closed the book and set it beside her bed. Mum pulled the quilt up softly. For now, the room did not need another story. It had a little space to be quiet.