Micia’s adventures in the vegetable garden, the hayloft and the farmhouse attic.

• 18 October 2026 #1 The Springtime Box Among the hills, the vegetable garden and an old fig tree, the grandparents’ farmhouse always seemed to have a story to tell. Micia knew that well: that morning she had gone into the kitchen looking for a pencil and found a little project instead. On the table lay several packets of seeds, already clean and dry. “We’ll save them for spring,” Grandma explained. “But first we need to put them away.” Lillo, the rabbit with the green scarf, suggested the sewing box. Pucci, the little black-and-white dog, poked his nose inside and found only spools and ribbons. “There’s no room left in here.” Chia the snail pointed to a small empty wooden box beneath the bench. They cleaned it and brought it to the table. The packets fitted perfectly, but they all looked alike. Micia held up two of them. “How will we know which ones are pumpkins and which are sunflowers?” Grandma recognised the seeds and showed her what to draw on each packet. Micia drew an orange pumpkin and a yellow flower. Lillo prepared a cardboard divider while Pucci held the packets steady with a paw. Chia checked that every picture could still be seen. When they finished, Micia added two green leaves to a label for the box. They chose a dry spot on the pantry shelf. “We’ll call it the springtime box.” Pucci looked outside: a golden leaf was falling from the fig tree. “But it’s autumn now.” “Exactly,” Micia replied. “It’ll save a surprise for us until the warm weather returns.” Lillo adjusted the lid. Chia smiled. Before going outside, Micia looked for her pencil again. It was behind the box. “The next thing we need to arrange,” she said, laughing, “is somewhere to keep this.” Read the tale →
• 18 October 2026 #2 A Home for the Pencil The morning after putting the springtime box away, Micia returned to the kitchen with a decision: the pencil needed a place of its own too. She found it on the table beside the scraps they had used for labels. She began drawing a sunflower, then turned to greet Franci, the mother hen who had just come in from the courtyard. The pencil rolled towards the edge. Pucci stopped it with a paw, without picking it up in his mouth. “This one doesn’t know how to stay still.” Micia placed it on the sewing-box lid. As soon as Grandma opened the box, she had to move it again. “It would always be travelling here,” Franci observed. They tried an empty jar. The pencil almost disappeared inside: Micia could barely reach it. From her little stool, Chia looked at the tall glass. “We need somewhere it can come out easily too.” Grandma found a blue-and-white cup she no longer used. It was low enough: the pencil stood upright with plenty showing above the rim. Micia put it in and took it out. Once, then again. “This is just the right size!” Franci suggested keeping it near their drawing spot. Pucci checked that the cup wasn’t on the edge of the table. Chia pointed to an unused paper scrap. Micia drew a little orange pencil on it and attached it to the cup as a label. When everything was ready, she picked up her sunflower drawing and finished it. Then she returned the pencil to its new home. Franci smiled. “And tomorrow you’ll know where to look.” Pucci gazed at the cup, pleased. “As long as nobody offers it a walk.” Micia laughed. The seeds were resting on the shelf; at last, the pencil was resting on the table too. Read the tale →
• 18 October 2026 #3 The Leaf Beneath the Paper The next morning, Micia found the pencil in the blue-and-white cup, exactly where she had left it. She took it with two sheets of paper: she wanted to draw outside. Lillo and Pucci walked with her to the old oak beside the covered well. Beyond the low wall, they could see rows of vines and the silvery crowns of olive trees. Betta, the sheep with the little lilac bow, was waiting beside a broad, flat rock. “The leaves here look like little hands,” she said, showing them one that had fallen onto the grass. Micia spread her paper on the rock, placed the leaf on top and began tracing its outline. A gust moved it. She started again, but the leaf turned once more. Pucci held a corner of the paper steady with a paw. “The paper’s staying now. It’s the leaf that wants a walk.” Lillo suggested a little stone, but it covered the very part Micia wanted to draw. Betta studied the two sheets. “What if we put the leaf underneath, as though it were under a blanket?” Micia tried. She placed the leaf beneath the paper and gently rubbed with the pencil held almost sideways, without pressing too hard. One line appeared. Then another. The veins made a tiny tree inside the shape of the leaf. “Now I can even see the bits I couldn’t copy before!” Lillo picked up another fallen leaf for his turn. Pucci kept holding the paper, and Betta checked that there were no creases underneath. When they finished, they headed home without picking anything from the branches. The well stayed behind them, peaceful beneath the oak. At the farmhouse, Micia put the pencil straight back into its cup and showed Grandma their drawings. “Tomorrow we could try an olive leaf.” Pucci looked at the paper. “That one will need a much narrower blanket.” Read the tale →
• 18 October 2026 #4 The Little Paper Fish The next morning, Micia took the pencil from its cup and slipped two sheets of paper between the pages of an old catalogue. After the oak leaf, she wanted to try an olive leaf. Pucci followed her along the path. In the olive grove they found Franci and Toto: the hen was arranging fallen olives in a wicker tray, while the little pig brought her those he had gathered from the cloth beneath the tree. “We’re looking for a leaf that’s already fallen,” Micia explained. Toto pointed to one beside the twisted trunk. It was narrow, silvery on one side and green on the other. Micia sat on the rust-coloured cloth. She rested the closed catalogue on her knees, put the leaf beneath a sheet of paper and gently rubbed with her pencil. The drawing came out so faint that she frowned. “The oak leaf showed up better.” Toto leaned his snout closer. “Perhaps this leaf is shy.” Franci came over, curious. “Let’s turn it over. The two sides don’t feel quite the same.” Micia lifted the paper and flipped the leaf. This time a thin outline and a long vein appeared. Pucci tilted his head in surprise. “It looks like a little fish without a tail!” Micia burst out laughing. She drew a tail, an eye and three bubbles beside the leaf’s impression. Toto wanted to add a rounder fish: it looked very much like his nose. Before leaving, they put the leaf back beneath the olive tree and helped Franci fold the cloth. At the farmhouse, Micia returned the pencil to its cup. Grandma looked at the two fish on the paper. “Tomorrow you could visit the pond. Who knows how many more drawings are waiting there?” Pucci stared at the bubbles. “Let’s hope we don’t need a waterproof pencil.” Read the tale →
• 18 October 2026 #5 The Circle That Wouldn’t Stay Still The following day, Micia took the old catalogue, two sheets of paper and the pencil to the pond. She wanted to see whether real fish looked like the ones they had drawn in the olive grove. Pucci walked ahead, stopping at every rustle. Lillo joined them near the reeds, his sage-green scarf a little crooked. On the dry bank, Micia knelt and placed the closed catalogue on the grass with a sheet of paper on top. There were no fish to be seen. Instead, the water showed a cloud, some reeds and two very long ears. “Those are mine,” Lillo explained, lying on his tummy in the grass for a closer look. Micia was drawing the cloud when something went plop. She jerked her pencil up, and Pucci raised a paw in surprise. A little green frog surfaced and climbed onto a low stone. “I’m Kiki. Did I splash you?” “Only the reflection,” Micia replied. The cloud had broken into little strips. Ever-widening circles spread around the stone. Micia tried to copy one, but by the time she looked again it had already changed. She tried once more. One circle disappeared; another reached the reeds. She wrinkled her nose in frustration. Lillo pointed to the paper. “You can draw it as it was when you saw it.” Micia thought about that. She drew a small circle with two larger ones around it. Then she added Kiki on the stone and Lillo’s reflected ears. “At least my ears won’t run away now,” said the rabbit. Kiki laughed so hard that she disturbed the water again. This time Micia laughed with her. Back at the farmhouse, they left the drawing to dry beside the little fish: a drop of water had dampened one corner. The pencil went back into its cup. “Tomorrow we’ll find a home for the drawings too,” Micia decided. Read the tale →
• 18 October 2026 #6 A Mane of Straw The next morning, the pond drawing was dry. Micia placed it inside the old catalogue with the little fish and the leaves: she wanted to find a cover to keep them all together. Lillo suggested asking Max. The horse lived in the stable, where Grandpa also kept boxes, string and sheets of card. He welcomed them with his head over the stable door. He had a chestnut coat, a small white star on his forehead and a dark mane with a few strands of straw tangled in it. “Grandpa left two clean pieces of card in the cupboard,” he said. “Perhaps they’re just what you need.” Micia fetched them and rested everything on a tied bale of straw. But the sheets kept sliding down its sloping surface. “Wait, I’ll hold them,” said Lillo. A strand of straw tickled Max’s nose. His sneeze sent the little fish drawing flying. Micia froze with her paws open and her mouth wide. “Now it can fly too!” Lillo found it on the dry floor beside the manger. It was undamaged. Max lowered his ears, embarrassed. “I meant to help, not blow the sea away.” Micia stroked his muzzle. “You’ve invented a flying fish.” They moved the card onto a chest with a flat lid. With Grandpa’s help, they joined the pieces along one edge with a strip of fabric; two ribbons would keep the folder closed. Micia drew Max on the cover. To copy his mane, she studied the strands of straw still caught in his tufts. The horse looked proudly at his portrait. “I’m keeping this hairstyle.” Back at the farmhouse, the drawings went into their new folder. Micia put it on a shelf, away from splashes from the sink. The pencil returned to its cup. A strand of straw, however, was still tucked behind her ear. Read the tale →
• 18 October 2026 #7 A Cushion for the Peaches The folder with Max’s portrait was safe on the shelf when Grandma called Micia. There were ripe peaches in the orchard to pick for their afternoon snack. Toto brought a shallow wooden crate, and Chia joined them along the path. Yellow and pink fruit hung among the branches, soft as little cheeks. Micia was already holding a peach in one paw. She reached towards a low branch with the other and picked a second with a gentle twist. “I can smell that one from down here,” said Chia, lifting her feelers. Toto knelt beside the crate and set the first fruit inside. The peach rolled towards a corner. He quickly stopped it, his eyebrows knitted. “I don’t want them bumping into each other on the way home.” Micia looked at the wooden bottom. “Perhaps they need a cushion.” Grandma had left a clean cloth on the fence. Micia spread it inside the crate, but a large fold remained in the middle. The first peach rolled up onto it and slid away again. Chia stretched her neck. “The cushion has a mountain in the middle.” Toto lifted the fruit. Micia smoothed the cloth, folding its edges along the sides, and they tried again. This time the peach stayed still. They placed more beside it in a single layer, leaving the hard ones on the branches. “No peach castles,” Toto decided. “Just a dormitory,” Micia replied. They carried the crate to the farmhouse, each holding one side. Chia was waiting at the doorstep, having taken the shortcut beneath the hedge. Grandma washed the fruit and sliced a peach for their snack. Toto looked at the crate. “We’ve made them so comfortable that I almost feel bad waking them.” Then he tasted a slice and immediately changed his mind. Read the tale →
• 18 October 2026 #8 The Mystery of the Lid After their peach snack, Micia returned the empty crate to Grandpa. She found him in the tool shed, adjusting a hinge on the little door. A spade and a rake hung on the wall. On the workbench were pincers, string, old bolts and a box of iron offcuts in all sorts of shapes. Pucci sniffed the air and curled up near the doorway. Nico, the blackbird, settled on the windowsill. “I’m missing a washer,” Grandpa said. “A little iron disc with a hole in the middle. It was in this jar.” Micia peered inside. There were two nuts, a screw and a button that certainly didn’t belong there. “Perhaps the washer has gone for a walk.” She tipped the contents into a little dish and moved the jar. Somewhere, something made a tiny tick. Pucci raised one ear without getting up. Micia checked beneath the crate. Nothing. Nico tilted his head towards the workbench. “I heard the sound when you moved the lid.” Micia lifted it and heard another tick. Inside, beneath a small magnet Grandpa had attached, the washer gleamed. “It was hiding on the ceiling!” Grandpa smiled. He used that magnet to keep little parts handy while making repairs. He had closed the jar and forgotten that particular one. Micia handed him the lid, and he took off the washer. Soon the little door was swinging smoothly without wobbling. “Mystery solved,” Nico announced. Pucci stretched and settled down again. He had followed the whole investigation with just one ear. Back in the house, Micia put the button in Grandma’s little sewing box. “You, on the other hand, had chosen the wrong jar.” Read the tale →
• 18 October 2026 #9 Three Little Beaks Beneath the Porch The morning after the adventure in the tool shed, Micia found a little saucer Grandma had prepared on the windowsill. It held chick feed with tiny seeds for Franci’s chicks. She carried it beneath the porch. Grandpa’s bicycle was leaning against the wall beside the green door, its basket at the front and its bell shining in the sun. Franci and three little yellow balls of fluff were walking across the terracotta floor. Chicco arrived first, followed by the other two, who stopped at every gap between the tiles. Micia took a pinch of seeds and let them fall in front of her. All three chicks rushed to the same spot. One stretched its neck, another shuffled sideways, and Chicco kept finding himself behind their little tails. “Just a moment,” Micia said. “There’s room for everyone here, but you’re having your snack on a postage stamp.” Franci clucked softly, and the little ones turned towards her. Micia swept her paw a little farther. The seeds fell in a small fan across the floor, like a golden drizzle. This time each chick found its own space. Chicco lowered his beak, then promptly lifted his head, looking pleased. “Peep!” “I think he said delicious,” Micia translated. Franci watched with one wing held slightly away from her body. One chick followed a seed into the bicycle’s shadow, pecked it up and returned to the others. Micia sat beside the pillar with the saucer on her knees. She waited before scattering any more. From the courtyard came the rustle of the fig tree and the sound of Grandma shaking out a tablecloth. “Today the porch has three little musicians,” she thought. They only sang peep, but they never all came in together. Read the tale →
• 18 October 2026 #10 The Mill’s Little Freckle The day after the chicks’ snack, Micia went with Grandpa to the mill to collect a bag of flour. Lillo and Betta came along too. The path ran between a field of golden wheat and rows of maize. Cabbages and broad pumpkin leaves grew near the stream. Around a bend, the mill appeared: stone walls, a red roof and a great wooden wheel. Water flowed from a little channel into the buckets around its rim, making them descend and turning the wheel. While Grandpa went inside, the friends stopped on the dry path behind the fence. “I’ll count how many turns it makes before he comes back,” Micia announced. “One, two, three, four…” Lillo looked puzzled. “But you’re counting the pieces of wood going past.” Micia stopped. She had already lost her place. Betta watched the edge of the wheel. “That bucket has a little red spot. It looks like a freckle.” Micia found it at the top. She watched it descend, disappear behind the channel wall and come up again. “There it is again!” “That’s one whole turn,” said Lillo. They waited for the freckle to return to the same place. Micia raised one finger. On its next visit, she raised two. By the time Grandpa appeared with the flour, the little spot had come round three times. “Three turns for one bag,” she declared. “For the time we waited for this bag,” Betta corrected her with a smile. They set off between the crops. Grandpa told them Grandma would be making little flatbreads. Micia glanced back at the wheel. “Then tomorrow, when I taste one, I’ll think of the freckle.” Lillo touched his nose. “I just hope I don’t end up with a flour freckle.” Read the tale →
• 19 October 2026 #11 The Bucket That Changed Its Voice The next morning, the smell of little flatbreads made with flour from the mill drifted from the kitchen. Before breakfast, Micia went into Molly’s cowshed. Pucci trotted along with her. The cow had large chestnut patches on her white coat, brown ears and a pink muzzle. She lifted her head from the manger to greet them. “You’re just in time.” Lillo was waiting with a clean bucket and a little churn to carry the milk to the farmhouse. Micia washed her paws and sat on the low stool beside Molly. She positioned the bucket and began milking with gentle movements, just as Grandpa had taught her. The first streams made a bright ringing sound: ting, ting, ting. Pucci pricked up an ear. Lillo held the churn’s lid and twitched his nose ever so slightly in time. After a while, though, the sound grew softer. It no longer sounded like the same bucket. Micia frowned. “Has it grown tired of singing?” Molly turned her muzzle slightly towards her. “Look at what’s inside.” Micia paused and rested one paw on her own leg, leaving the other on the stool. There was milk in the bucket, with a few little bubbles. Lillo pointed to the bottom: at first the streams had struck the metal; now they were falling onto the milk already collected. “So the bucket isn’t tired. It’s changed its voice!” Pucci rested his chin on his paws. He liked the second voice: it sounded like a little shower of rain. When milking was finished, Micia and Lillo filled the churn and closed it. They thanked Molly and returned to the farmhouse. Grandma heated the milk and put the flatbreads in a basket. Micia took a sip and acquired a little foam moustache. “The mill gave us flour, and Molly gave us milk. I’ve found my breakfast whiskers.” Read the tale →
• 19 October 2026 #12 The Flower That Said Hello After breakfast with milk and little flatbreads, Micia followed the path behind the farmhouse. Among oaks, lime trees and sweet chestnuts stood four beehives: one blue, one yellow, one green and one pink. Raffa, the fox with the cream chest and white-tipped tail, was waiting beside an old stump. “Can you hear this place humming?” Bees came and went above the flower-filled meadow. Micia stopped on the path, where a blue bellflower grew between two tufts of grass. A bee landed on the flower, and its stem gently bent. “Good morning to you too,” Micia said, giving a little bow. Raffa turned. The bee had already flown off, and the bellflower had straightened. “Who are you talking to?” “A very polite flower.” The fox raised a puzzled eyebrow. She lay beside the stump with her muzzle resting on her paws. They waited. The bee returned, buzzing near the bellflower. “I’m Flo. Are you waiting for someone?” “Another greeting,” Micia replied. Flo landed, and the flower bowed again. This time Raffa saw everything. “I think the greeting arrives with the guest.” Flo took off. The bellflower stood upright again. Micia burst out laughing: the bee’s tiny weight was making the stem bend. “Then you’re a pair of dancers!” Flo made a little circle in the air and flew to another flower. Raffa followed her with her eyes, smiling. Before heading back to the farmhouse, Micia gave the bellflower one last bow. It stayed still, but she didn’t mind. A steady hum drifted from the colourful hives. Beneath the trees’ broad crowns, the meadow seemed to be holding a thousand tiny conversations. Read the tale →
• 19 October 2026 #13 A Button with Wings Leaving the hives and the flower that said hello behind, Micia reached the edge of the wheat field. Pucci was waiting on the path, with a fallen ear of wheat beside his paws. The wind swept through the golden stalks, bending them all the same way. Poppies and a few blades of green grass grew along the edge. Micia noticed a little red circle on a leaf. It had black spots and shone in the sun. “A button!” She bent down for a closer look. The button took three steps. Pucci lifted his head in surprise. “Can the buttons on your overalls do that?” “Only when I’m walking.” Two antennae appeared above the little circle. “I’m Bea,” said the ladybird. “And this leaf is taking me on a very bumpy journey.” Another gust made it sway. Micia held an open paw steady beside its edge. Bea climbed aboard by herself. Pucci sat down to watch without bumping her. Micia stayed crouched, her eyes full of curiosity. “Where would you like to go?” “Onto that poppy. I can see the path nicely from there.” Micia moved slowly towards the flower, but before she could bring her paw close, Bea opened her red back. Two little delicate wings appeared. The ladybird flew onto the poppy and closed her spotted coat again. Micia’s mouth fell open. “This button has wings too!” “Then don’t let it fall out of your pocket,” Pucci joked. “It wasn’t in my pocket. It was already on a journey.” They stayed a moment, listening to the wheat rustle. Then they took the path back to the farmhouse. Micia checked the two golden buttons on her overalls: they were still in place. Just in case, though, she quietly asked whether either of them was planning to fly. Read the tale →
• 19 October 2026 #14 A Drink Without a Hurry The morning after meeting Bea, Micia went to the drinking trough beside the pasture. Molly was waiting by the long stone basin, while Lillo sat on the grass. The water was still low. At one end stood a metallic grey hand pump, with a curved handle and a spout pointing into the trough. “I’ll try today,” Micia said. She gripped the handle with both paws and began moving it. The lever rose, then fell. First came a few drops and a little gurgle, then a clear stream of water. Micia smiled, pleased. To fill the trough faster, she sped up. The water splashed down, and a few droplets reached the rim. Molly lowered her muzzle but quickly lifted it again: a splash had tickled her nose. Lillo twitched his ears. “I think Molly would rather have a drink than a shower.” Micia stopped, a little frustrated. She was trying to help. The cow looked at her calmly. “You are helping. We can just take it a little more slowly.” Micia moved the handle again, keeping a steady rhythm. Up and down, without rushing. Water continued flowing into the trough, and the splashes grew smaller. Molly lowered her muzzle again. This time she stayed there, drinking peacefully. Lillo rested his paws on his knees and watched the water rise. When it was high enough, Micia let the handle come to rest. The stream thinned and stopped. Molly lifted her muzzle with a drop still clinging to her nose. “Thank you. Just what I needed.” Micia looked at her own wet paws and laughed. “You’ve had a drink. I’ve had a very tiny shower.” Read the tale →
• 19 October 2026 #15 A Break Beneath the Cherry Tree After helping Molly at the drinking trough, Micia took a little basket and met Roby, the tabby cat, on the dirt road climbing behind the pasture. They wanted to bring Grandma a few ripe cherries. Oaks and sweet chestnuts grew on either side. Farther up stood an enormous cherry tree: its trunk was broad, its branches stretched over the road, and pairs of red fruit gleamed among the leaves. Beside the tree, grapevines ran along low wooden supports, with broad leaves, curling tendrils and bunches of black grapes. “That shade looks made for a rest,” Roby said. Micia picked a few cherries from a low branch and put them in her basket. Then she set it on the path to rest her paws. Its bottom sat at an angle. One cherry slipped out and began rolling downhill. Roby stopped it with a paw. “This one wants to reach the farmhouse before we do.” Micia picked up the basket, frustrated. “Can’t we even sit down?” Tobia, the white Maremma sheepdog, appeared from behind the trunk. He was looking for a cool spot too. “There’s a level patch of earth between those two roots.” Micia tried it. The basket stayed still, sheltered beside the trunk. She sat on the broadest root while Roby settled in the grass. The road kept climbing ahead of them, but there was no hurry here. Tobia lay down beside Roby, stretching his paws out on the grass. “Now the cherries can have a rest too.” Micia looked at the basket and smiled. When they set off again, she held it with both paws. At the farmhouse, Grandma washed the fruit and put some in a bowl. Micia told her about the runaway cherry. “Luckily, Roby reminded it that snacks are better together.” Read the tale →
• 20 October 2026 #16 The Sprig That Tickled Micia After resting beneath the cherry tree, Micia had discovered how pleasant it was to walk without hurrying. When autumn arrived, she returned to the path behind the farmhouse with a small basket. This time she was looking for a few sprigs of butcher’s broom to decorate the windowsill. Leaves crunched beneath her paws in the woodland. A fern grew among the mossy roots; a little farther on, red berries gleamed against the green. Micia crouched down. “There you are!” She picked a short sprig and laid it in her basket, but its tip caught on the handle. She tried pushing it farther down: the sprig bent and brushed one of her whiskers. Micia wrinkled her little nose. “Have you come to tickle me?” She turned it the other way. This time the tip stuck out over the rim and caught on her overalls as she stood up. Micia stopped at once. She crouched again and gently freed the fabric. For a moment she looked at the basket as though it had caused the trouble. Then she noticed that the sprig was simply too long to fit across it. She laid it along the rim, tucking the stem beneath the handle. At last it stayed still. She picked just one more, smaller sprig, leaving the other berries on the bushes. Before setting off, she removed a dry leaf from her paw: it had stayed with her throughout the whole job. Back at the farmhouse, she put the two sprigs in a little vase on the windowsill. One leaned slightly toward the window. Micia smiled. “You can look outside. Just leave my whiskers alone this time.” Read the tale →
• 20 October 2026 #17 The Cellar Answers Back The next morning, the two sprigs of butcher’s broom were still in their little vase on the windowsill. Micia straightened them, then went down to the cellar to find a basket for chestnuts. As soon as she opened the door, she smelled wood and cool stone. Large wine barrels rested on supports along the walls. A lantern lit their iron hoops, while a strip of pale daylight came through the small window. “Good morning,” Micia said. A fainter greeting came from the vaulted ceiling. Micia stopped. She looked behind a barrel, then in the corner by the wicker-covered demijohn. Nobody was there. “Who said that?” Her last words came softly back to her. Micia’s eyes widened. She rested a paw on the round end of the biggest barrel and tilted her head. “Was it you?” The barrel stayed still. Micia waited, then tried whispering. This time she could barely hear anything. She said her own name a little louder and heard it repeated beneath the bricks. At last she smiled: it was the echo of her own voice. She stepped back and gently clapped her paws. That sound bounced between the walls too. Near the door, though, it seemed to fade more quickly. Micia tried twice more, moving to a different spot each time. She was having so much fun that she forgot about the basket until she noticed it hanging from a hook right beside the exit. She took it and headed for the stairs. “Goodbye!” The cellar sent back a little piece of her farewell. Micia laughed. “You can keep that one. I’ll bring you another tomorrow.” Read the tale →
• 20 October 2026 #18 Counting the Stars That evening, after discovering the echo in the cellar, Micia joined Pucci, Tobia and Lillo in the meadow behind the farmhouse. The sky was deep blue, and the stars shone like tiny dots of gold. Tobia stretched out in the grass. Pucci settled beside him, while Lillo wrapped his scarf more snugly around his neck. “Shall we count them?” Micia suggested. She started with the brightest star above the oak tree. One, two, three… At nine, Pucci pointed his little nose toward another group higher up. Micia looked up and lost her place. “Had I counted that one already?” Lillo twitched an ear. “I reached twelve, but I might have counted the same ones twice.” Tobia smiled. “Then we have a very crowded sky.” Micia tried again, following a row of lights. Then she spotted a fainter one between two bright stars and stopped once more. The longer she looked, the more stars seemed to appear. She lowered her paw, a little disappointed. “I’ll never finish.” Pucci tilted his head. “Do we really have to?” Micia was quiet for a moment. Then she raised a paw toward three stars close together. “Those make me think of a basket.” “I can see a carrot,” Lillo said. Tobia looked at the same little group. “To me, it’s a cushion.” Pucci laughed. “You always want to lie down!” They stayed there inventing shapes, each finding something different. When a cool breeze stirred the grass, they headed back toward the farmhouse’s glowing window. Micia took one last look at the sky. She had lost count, but now she knew where to find her golden basket. Read the tale →
• 20 October 2026 #19 Piadina Under the Festival Lights The evening after counting the stars, Micia went to the village festival with Pucci and Lillo. Strings of red, green, blue and golden bulbs shone above the square. The town hall clock rose among the rooftops. “At least these won’t move while I count them,” Micia said. Then such a delicious smell reached her that she forgot about the lights at once. Beneath a striped canopy, Franci had set up a stall of Romagna specialities: stacks of warm piadina flatbreads, cheeses on wooden boards and sliced cured meats. A bowl held soft cheese as white as a cloud. Micia chose a piadina with prosciutto, cheese and rocket. Franci folded it and handed it to her in a paper sleeve. Micia took it in one paw and turned toward Lillo to show him. The piadina tilted, and a rocket leaf began slipping out. “Wait!” Pucci cried. Micia quickly placed her other paw beneath the paper. The leaf stayed on the edge, quivering slightly. Franci smiled. “Good things deserve two paws.” Micia straightened the piadina and held it steady. Pucci and Lillo came closer to the counter, amused by the little rescue. Franci made theirs too: one with prosciutto for Pucci and one with cheese and rocket for Lillo. The three friends found a bench at the edge of the square. From there they could see the stall, the arch of festival lights and the glowing clock face on the town hall. At last, Micia took her first bite. “Well?” Lillo asked. She smiled, waited until she had finished chewing and replied: “This festival really does taste wonderful.” Read the tale →
• 22 October 2026 #20 The Attic of Forgotten Toys The morning after the village festival, Micia went up to the attic to look for an empty box. She wanted to tidy the ribbons left in the sewing drawer. Beneath the great wooden beams stood cardboard boxes, an old trunk and folded blankets. Golden light streamed through the dormer window, making the dust sparkle in the air. Micia lifted a sheet of crumpled paper. Underneath was a wooden train. Then she found a spinning top, a blue-and-orange ball and a rocket with a red nose cone. “So this is where you all were!” She sat on the rug and placed the rocket in front of her paws. As soon as she let go, though, it leaned to one side. Micia straightened it. The rocket wobbled again. “You can’t take off crooked.” Among the building pieces she found a little mallet. She picked it up, but before using it she stopped to look more closely: one of the fins was resting right on a fold in the rug. Micia steadied the rocket with one paw and kept the mallet lowered in the other. “Perhaps you’re not the one that needs fixing.” She moved the toy aside, smoothed out the fold and tried again. This time the rocket stayed upright. To celebrate, she placed two blocks beside it and imagined a launch pad. The train would bring the passengers; the ball, of course, would be a planet. When she went downstairs, Micia had found a small empty box for the ribbons. She left the toys neatly arranged on the rug, ready to show her friends. On the stairs, she turned back toward the rocket. “Wait for us. The journey begins after our snack.” Read the tale →
• 22 October 2026 #21 A Shower of Olives The afternoon after their imaginary journey in the attic, Micia joined Pucci, Lillo and Franci in the olive grove. They had spread large green nets beneath the twisted trunks. Pale and dark olives already rested on the mesh. Micia picked up the little wooden olive comb and started with a low branch. Each stroke sent a few olives falling with a gentle patter. “It sounds like a little shower,” Pucci said. Lillo gathered two edges of the net beside the crate. Meanwhile, Franci separated leaves from olives in a wicker tray. Micia wanted to finish the whole branch before the others. She stretched up, combed again and felt her arms growing heavy. Three little beads of sweat appeared beside her forehead. She sighed. “This branch goes on forever.” Just then, an olive bounced on the net and rolled behind a fold. Pucci followed it with his nose. “This one wants to escape!” Micia lowered the comb and bent down to look. She found it with two more, hidden beneath a leaf. “There’s another harvest down here.” Lillo showed her how to lift the edge of the net gently. The olives rolled toward the crate, but a leaf arrived first. Franci picked it out, laughing. “You’re not invited to the olive mill.” Micia helped Lillo with the net while giving her arms a rest. Then they drank some water in the shade of the trunk. When she picked up the comb again, she chose a closer twig and worked without hurrying. The pattering began once more. Pucci pricked up his ears. “The rain is back.” Micia smiled. “Luckily, we brought nets instead of umbrellas.” Read the tale →
• 23 October 2026 #22 The Valley of Straw Bales The day after the olive harvest, Micia left the little comb to rest and climbed the path among the oaks. She wanted to see how far she could look from the top of the hill. Golden stubble covered the field. Great round straw bales rested on the slope, their stalks wound into tight spirals. From far away they looked small; up close, one was almost taller than Micia. Beside the biggest bale, she stopped and raised a paw above her eyes to shade them from the sun. Below her lay fields, vineyard rows and little roads. Among the cypresses, she recognised the farmhouse roof. “There you are! From up here, you look like a doll’s house.” Micia took a few steps to examine the bale’s spiral. But when she looked for the roof again, she could no longer see it. She stood on tiptoe. Nothing. She moved toward the oak and peered between the branches. Still nothing. “You can’t have gone away while I was looking at the straw.” Then she lowered her eyes: right in front of her was the side of the great bale, hiding part of the valley. Micia retraced her steps. The roof reappeared beyond the golden edge. She burst out laughing. “Hide-and-seek! But I hadn’t even started counting.” She stayed a while, looking at the other bales scattered down the slope. They all seemed to be waiting quietly for their turn. When she returned to the path, she recognised the fork beneath the oaks and walked calmly home. At the farmhouse, she told Grandma how she had lost sight of it. “To find it again,” she explained, “I only had to take a couple of steps. Luckily, I didn’t have to move the bale!” Read the tale →
• 23 October 2026 #23 Sweet Dreams That evening, after her walk among the straw bales, Micia went up to her little bedroom. Outside the window, the sky was changing from pink to blue, and the hills were becoming soft shadows. The oil lamp lit the ceiling beams. On the bedside cabinet, the little radio was playing a quiet tune. Micia climbed into bed and pulled the soft cream blanket over her legs. It was covered with blue and golden stars and little rockets. Then she looked at the white telescope beside the window. “Just one look at the sky before I sleep.” But as she began moving the blanket aside, an enormous yawn arrived. Micia raised a paw to her mouth and stayed sitting against the pillow. She tried opening her eyes properly. A second yawn lasted even longer. “Perhaps the sky can wait a moment.” She listened to the radio, trying to follow the tune again. She heard three notes, then a little rumble. She looked down: it wasn’t the radio. Her tummy had decided to join in with the music. Micia giggled softly. Grandma appeared in the doorway to say goodnight. Micia told her about the concert, then pointed to the telescope. “I wanted to take one last journey.” “You can set off again tomorrow,” Grandma said, tucking the blanket around her. Micia looked at the globe on the shelf beside the books. Then she traced a rocket on the fabric with one paw. “This one starts right here, for now.” Grandma turned off the radio and put out the lamp. Only the twilight remained in the quiet room. Micia rested her head on the pillow. The telescope could wait: she had already found a soft place to start her journey. “Sweet dreams,” Grandma whispered. Read the tale →
• 29 October 2026 #24 A Walk to the Pond The day after her long sleep, Micia’s little paws were full of energy again. That afternoon, she went to the pond with Lillo and Pucci, carrying a small bowl of corn. They sat on the little wooden platform. Pale, feathery seed heads swayed among the reeds, and a soft cloth mallard glided across the water, with a green head and a blue patch on his wing. Micia dropped a few kernels. The mallard lifted his bill, then kept swimming calmly toward the floating leaves. “He hasn’t seen us,” Pucci whispered. Micia was about to call when Lillo gently touched her sleeve. “Look in front of him.” A light breeze was pushing some kernels toward the leaves: the mallard had already spotted them. “He’s found a shortcut!” Micia said. She tried following a kernel near the platform with her eyes. For a moment, she lost it among the pale reflections. Pucci pointed his nose toward a tiny ripple. “There it is!” Micia dropped just two more kernels. The mallard turned gently and approached the platform, picking up the corn without hurrying. A curved wake spread across the water behind him. Lillo followed the route with his eyes. “He went past the leaves and came back here. He’s been for a walk too!” When the bowl was nearly empty, Micia set it beside her. They stayed to watch their new friend swim toward the reeds. Then the breeze stirred the feathery seed heads, and Pucci sneezed so quietly that he surprised even himself. “Come on,” Micia laughed. “Before the pond answers us!” Read the tale →
• 30 October 2026 #25 A Concert at the Pond That evening, Micia was closing the farmhouse shutters when she heard a sound coming from the woods. “Croak… croak-croak… croak.” Then silence. Then, once again, many voices together. Micia tilted an ear. It sounded as though someone was practising a song but couldn’t quite get started. She picked up the old oil lantern and followed the path. Its light slipped over roots and leaves, while little patches of starry sky appeared between the branches. At every bend, the sound grew closer. But when Micia reached the pond, everything fell quiet. “Have I come to the wrong place?” She stood still on the bank. Before her were only dark water, reeds and the trembling reflection of the moon. Then a voice croaked right beside her little paws. Micia jumped. A little frog was sitting on a low stone. “Oh, it was you!” Another frog answered from the opposite bank. A third joined in somewhere among the reeds, and soon the whole pond was singing again. Micia tried following the rhythm, tapping a paw gently against her knee. But just as she thought she had learnt it, one voice came in early and another took a long pause. “This concert is trickier than I expected.” She sat on a log and set the lantern beside her. She stopped counting and simply listened. When she got up to leave, the chorus fell silent again. Micia waited without moving. One frog gave a little croak. “Goodnight to you too,” she whispered. Behind her, along the path, the concert began again. Read the tale →
• 1 November 2026 #26 A Trip to the Seaside with Friends The morning after the frogs’ concert, Micia told Lillo and Pucci all about it. Then Grandpa suggested a trip to the seaside, and the three friends packed a picnic basket. When they arrived, the water was turquoise and so clear that they could see the sand beneath it. While Lillo and Pucci settled the basket in the shade of a pine tree, Micia rolled up her overall cuffs and went down to the shore. A little wave washed over her paws. “Ooh! Chilly!” She took a step back, then moved forward again. Just then, a little red crab appeared beside a stone. Micia stopped. The crab raised a claw. “Hello! Have you been paddling too?” She tried moving gently closer, but he stepped sideways. Micia turned a little, and the crab took another sideways step. “Wait… this path never goes straight!” A giggle came from the pine tree. Lillo and Pucci were coming to join her. Micia tried copying her new friend: one sideways step, then another. A wave brushed her ankles and washed away her footprints. “The sea has given us a fresh floor,” Pucci observed. They stood still while the crab passed in front of them and reached his stone. Micia gave him all the space he needed. Then Lillo called them for their picnic. The three friends returned to the pine tree, leaving a slightly crooked trail of footprints in the sand. Micia looked at the sea and smiled. “We’ve learnt a new step today.” Read the tale →
• 2 November 2026 #27 The Upside-Down Page The day after the trip to the seaside, Micia entered the village’s old library. She wanted to find out the name of the little red crab she had met on the shore. Among the shelves, she found a large book with a golden shell on its cover. She placed it on the table and climbed onto the little armchair. Blue flowers appeared on the first page. Leaves on the second. Then a blue circle filled with golden dots. Micia tilted her head. “Perhaps crabs live near the stars?” She turned another page. There was a plant with its roots pointing upward. Her eyes widened, and she paused with one paw hovering over the paper. “This library has some very strange ideas.” She tried reading the little lines beneath the drawing. The letters seemed to be doing somersaults. She leaned closer, moved back, then gave a quiet huff. A blue bookmark was peeking out from the edge of the book. Micia touched it and noticed its tassel: instead of hanging toward her, it was on the far side of the table. She looked at the roots again. Then at the letters. “Wait a moment…” She carefully closed the book, turned it around and opened it again. The roots went back underground. The letters lined up neatly. The blue circle became a map of the sky. Micia laughed so loudly that she quickly covered her mouth with a paw. “Sorry,” she whispered to the shelves. The book was about flowers and constellations. The shell on the cover was only a decoration. Before looking for another book, Micia left the bookmark at the page about stars. “The little crab can wait. Now I want to understand this picture.” Read the tale →
• 2 November 2026 #28 A Meadow for Meditation After her afternoon in the library, Micia’s head was still full of flowers, stars and pages to turn. Even sitting beneath the oak, she kept thinking about the big book. “Shall we try sitting here without doing anything?” Lillo suggested. Franci called their friends from the yard. Pucci, Tobia, Betta, Toto and Max arrived. Everyone found a little place in the meadow. Micia crossed her legs, rested her paws on her knees and closed her eyes. For a moment, she heard only the wind in the leaves. Then she thought about their snack. Then about the little crab at the seaside. Then she wondered whether everyone else was thinking about their snack too. She opened one eye. Pucci was settling one paw over the other. Toto was trying to get comfortable, while Max had lowered his muzzle toward the grass. “I keep having lots of thoughts,” Micia whispered. “So do I,” Betta replied. “I was counting the daisies.” Lillo smiled without opening his eyes. “I listen to the leaves. When I get distracted, I listen to them again.” Micia tried once more. She breathed in gently and smelled the grass. A breeze stirred her whiskers. Somewhere, an insect buzzed and then flew away. This time, she didn’t try to guess where it was going. They stayed like that for a few minutes, close together and peaceful, until Toto’s tummy gave a little rumble. Pucci opened his eyes. Then Micia did. Then everyone burst out laughing. “The meadow was quiet,” Toto said, “but I had something to add.” Franci was the first to stand up. “Then we’ll carry on meditating after our snack.” Micia picked up the basket. The book could wait a little longer. Read the tale →
• 2 November 2026 #29 Sea or Mountains? Both! After their day in the meadow, Micia had found a new place to sit quietly: by the window, with a postcard of the Dolomites between her paws. “At the seaside, we dipped our feet in the water,” she said. “I wonder what you do up there.” “You walk!” Lillo replied. Pucci looked at the pointed peaks and tilted his head. They seemed to call for quite a lot of steps. A few days later, they were among those very mountains, wearing helmets, little hiking boots and harnesses. Ahead of them, a short via ferrata climbed the pale rock. Micia placed one foot on the first iron rung. Then she looked for the next. “One at a time,” she murmured. Lillo followed, his ears bobbing beneath his helmet. A little farther ahead, Pucci waited for them on a broad ledge. Halfway up, Micia stopped. She was looking for another rung when Lillo pointed to something beside her boot. A purple bellflower was growing in a crack in the rock. “It got all the way up here without boots,” the rabbit observed. Micia laughed and carried on. When they reached the resting spot, they sat down to catch their breath. Below them, meadows stretched between woods and tiny houses. Pucci took their snack bag out of his little backpack. It was completely squashed. “The biscuits had a difficult climb,” Micia said. They shared them anyway, gathering the crumbs from the napkin. “Well?” Lillo asked. “Which is better, the sea or the mountains?” Micia looked at the peaks, then at her dusty boots. She thought of the turquoise water and the little red crab. “Both! Though after that climb, I’d love to dip my feet in the water again.” Pucci took off one little boot and sighed. He was ready already. Read the tale →
• 3 November 2026 #30 A Little House on the Screen Back from the Dolomites, Micia had filled a notebook with drawings: pointed mountains, little windows and small wooden cabins. She had an idea: to design a little playhouse to put beneath the porch. That evening, she switched on the laboratory lamp. The radios rested on the shelves, and stars shone outside the window. On the laptop, she drew four walls, a roof and a door. Then she added a round window. Everything seemed ready. Until she tried to fit a little table inside. It wouldn’t fit. Micia made it smaller. Now it fitted, but the chairs blocked the door. She adjusted her big black glasses and started again. She moved a wall, widened the entrance and turned the table. The sheet beside the computer filled with rubbed-out lines. When Lillo knocked, Micia was wiping her forehead with one little paw. “I’m building a little house that nobody can get into,” she sighed, with a small smile. The rabbit looked at the model on the desk. “What if we put the table outside? There’s already a roof over the porch.” Micia sat still for a moment. Then she erased the table from the drawing. At last, there was room inside for a rug, a box of building blocks and a little shelf for books. “What about the door?” Lillo asked. Micia made it a little wider still. “So your ears can get through too.” Lillo raised them, as if taking a measurement. They looked at the design and burst out laughing. Before switching off the computers, Micia saved her work with a very specific name: Little House, Attempt Number Seven. Building it would take more time. But at least on the screen, there was room for everyone now. Read the tale →

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