The Yellow Messenger

Fleur unlocked the flower shop with the same care they gave to every small thing; the key turned once, bell lifted so it wouldn’t ring too sharply, a breath taken before pushing the door just so so the hinges wouldn’t squeal.

They stepped inside to the collection of scents; wet soil, clean water, peppery marigold and the green smell of crushed stems. They fiddled with the window latch so it would sit just so and let the breeze through without rattling the frame. Beyond the shop, the world had begun its slow transition from harvest towards rest. The hedgerows wore their finest reds. Maples bled into maroons. Even the pumpkin vines, so grand and sprawling in summertime, had begun to withdraw into themselves, the leaves crumpling at the edges.

A kettle hummed on the stove in the back, readying for the day’s first cup of mint tea. On the long table, buckets of blooms waited to be sorted into morning arrangements: wheat for texture, ranunculus for beauty, violets for modesty, plum for hope and chrysanthemums for joy.

Patalum itself worked at its usual pace beyond the shop’s windows. Bowroo shepherds clucked to their flocks. A Poffee baker propped the oven door open to let out a ribbon of steam while checking their sweets, and pumpkin soup was being prepared for the square’s midday pot. The village made a soft sound when it worked, the hush of wheat brushing against wheat, brooms sweeping stoops and of small talk between neighbors.

Fleur laid out twine, shears, brown paper, and a pencil whose end they had chewed during last week’s late-night bookkeeping and began to assemble a wedding order. Friendly by nature, reserved by choice, and serious about their craft, they worked with the practiced ease of someone who understood that care is a kind of magic.

The bell rang.

They glanced up, expecting Old Mich for dill seed or one of the Lelokos who liked to buy garlands. Instead, a small yellow creature stood on the threshold.

It was the color of sun caught inside a leaf, the vivid yellow of grain at noon with smudges of orange. Fluffy ears, bright eyes and nimble paws and a tail that jittered. In its hands it held a tan-colored letter, the paper appearing to be expensive with a vibrant red autumn leaf pinned in place under a blob of wax and the small creature vibrated with restrained movement.

“Good morning,” Fleur said gently, their voice inviting. “Can I help you?”

The creature said nothing. It extended the letter forward as if measuring the space from its paws to Fleur’s. Its eyes locked onto them and did not blink.

Fleur had been told stories as a child, the sort whispered by elders who had long since learned patience from their long lives. Stories about messengers and a king who was more season than person. Stories about how refusing an invitation could sour milk and send fish to deeper waters. Stories that were never declared true or false. Even so, they were a practical person. They folded a ribbon into a soft curl around a bunch of chrysanthemums and said mildly, “One moment please.”

The creature slid closer and a pleased shiver ran along its spine.

Fleur finished the bride’s bouquet, with the long tails of wheat and the pale roses that blushed and set it gently aside. Then, they considered the small creature with a calm, evaluating gaze.

“Are you a courier?” they asked.

No answer. The creature’s paws trembled with the effort of not bouncing, letter thrust even farther out.

Behind the counter, the kettle chose this moment to scream and Fleur stepped toward the back. The creature followed them, light as a leaf, and when Fleur stopped to turn the flame down, the creature nearly ran into their legs and only saved itself by hopping straight up with a little squeak.

“I see,” Fleur said.

The bell rang again and Finn blazed into the shop. He wore a studded jacket and his orange coat looked like someone had poured sunlight through tangerines and let it splash all over him. The blue in his mane and at the tips of his horns matched the clear sky outside. He thudded to a halt at the sight of the creature.

“Whoa,” Finn breathed. “Who invited lemon lightning?”

The creature, delighted by the attention, executed three tiny hops so swiftly that its ears blurred. It darted around Finn twice, and then, satisfied that he understood its existence, returned to its post in front of Fleur, letter thrust out.

Fleur lifted a placating paw. “Hold, please. Finn, wash your paws if you’re going to touch anything. You smell like the barn’s tin roof after your band practices.”

“Chrysanthemum Clash has a show to prep for,” Finn declared. “We sound like thunder. Oh! Also, Windan said-” He halted again, eyes locked on the letter. “Fleur, that wax seal looks expensive.”

“It does,” Fleur agreed and stepped around the counter to get a better look. The creature matched them step for step, tangling their legs until Finn, trying to be helpful, sighed and reached down.

The creature zipped out of reach and Finn stumbled, clipped the edge of the ribbon drawer with his elbow, and sent a ribbon cascading across the floor. The creature executed a gleeful jig in the middle of the mess, then froze again, letter extended, eyes on Fleur.

“Yellow,” Finn said with sudden recognition. “From the stories.”

“Mm,” Fleur murmured, tying a quick knot into the ribbon so it wouldn’t unspool further. “Yellow is the excitable one.”

“Excitable?” Finn said. “It’s vibrating so hard it’s making my teeth hurt.”

“Perhaps it wants me to take the letter.”

Finn made a face like someone who had tried something new and been surprised to find it was delicious. “Maybe it wants to be chased.”

The kettle in the back screamed again. The bell over the front door chimed a third time and Old Mich shuffled in. “Morning,” he greeted absentmindedly, peering into a jar of sprigs. “Is that a King’s creature… dancing on your ribbons?”

The creature, flattered, did more hops.

“Apparently.” Fleur set their paws on their hips without losing their smile. “One moment, Mich.”

“Take your time,” Mich said cheerfully, settling himself on the bench to watch like someone who’d found the best seat at a play.

Fleur addressed the creature again. “Are you here for me?”

It offered no sound, no nod. Only the letter.

Fleur considered the morning’s tasks; a delivery to the wool shop, five bouquets, and a five-minute lecture they would give Finn about not drumming rhythms on display pieces and weighed them against the possible consequences of ignoring a messenger from a being people in Patalum did not name lightly.

Fleur took one step toward the letter, and in that instant the creature bounded backward with a delighted squeak, brushing Finn’s ankles. Finn’s weight shifted and his heel found a pebble that had found its way in on someone’s boot. He yelped, windmilled, and would have slammed into the doorframe if Fleur hadn’t reached out with a paw and redirected his momentum into the open space and he ended in a heap of indignity and studs.

“See?” Finn announced from the floor. “Pranks.”

Fleur’s ears twitched. “That settles it.”

They bent to take the letter.

The creature met their paws halfway and the letter slid into Fleur’s grip. The wax seal was stamped with a sigil that looked like a tree and a crown all at once. The red leaf pinned under the wax was so vivid it might have been freshly plucked only moments ago.

The creature’s eyes crinkled at the edges with what could only be described as satisfaction. It hopped once, twice, thrice, faster and higher each time, until the last hop burst into a delighted crumble of golden leaves and a sound like a giggle whisked away by the wind. The leaves spun in a tiny cyclone and drifted to the floor in a neat circle around Finn’s sprawled form.

“Well,” Old Mich said, pushing himself to his feet, “you don’t see that every day.” His grin seemed to brighten. “If the Autumn King is inviting you, best wear your good clothes.”

Finn scrambled upright and shook leaves out of his mane. “Fleur, open it. Maybe it’s concert tickets. Or a treasure map.”

“Perhaps,” Fleur said, and they carried the letter to the counter and broke the wax with their nail.

The envelope held a textured sheet that had been trimmed by hand. Someone had pressed tiny leaves into the edges as a decorative hem, and the paper smelled faintly of acorns. Fleur unfolded it.

“My fellow Crederians,” they read aloud for Old Mich and Finn and whoever else had decided to linger in the doorway, “it is with great joy that I announce The Autumn King has invited you to celebrate the changing of seasons. He has so graciously opened his heart and home, for the celebration will be held in his very court. The festivities will commence upon the 20th, and we do hope you’ll manage to make it. Until then, ta ta~”

The air seemed to exhale through the shop as if the walls were listening.

Finn whistled, a low note of wonder. “In his court,” he repeated. “That’s… That’s not a barn show.”

“More a fable than not.” Old Mich muttered, but he didn’t sound certain.

Fleur read it again silently because they wanted to be sure they hadn’t missed a trick. Their expression remained steady, but inside they felt that particular sensation familiar to gardeners the world over: the moment when a seed you’d never planted appears, as if the earth had decided to surprise you with something new.

The wind took that moment to breeze in through the half-cracked window. It fluffed the drying herbs and threaded itself through Fleur’s mane and scattered the little pile of golden leaves directly into their face. Finn burst out laughing. Old Mich coughed to hide his smile and failed.

“That was on purpose,” Finn said.

“Quite possibly,” Fleur answered, pushing leaves off their nose.

Their day, the day that had been typical, would not be typical any longer.

Within a half hour Patalum knew, because Patalum always knew. Lelokos popped their heads around the door to ask about the helper. Bowroo shepherds came to see the invitation while their dogs sniffed at the leaves with puzzled looks. A Poffee baker swore his helper had been Red, not Yellow, and that it had simply stared at him.

Through it all, the letter sat on the counter beside the coin tray where customers left payments. The red leaf pinned by wax never curled. The ink, an amber-brown like sap, did not smudge when Finn tapped at it with a curious paw.

“Are we going?” he asked for the third time as he tied a strap on his satchel.

“Going requires leaving someone in charge of the shop,” Fleur said.

“I can do both,” Finn argued. “Attend and be in charge.”

“Perhaps…” Fleur answered, their thoughts elsewhere.

As the day progressed, they wrapped blooms for a Bowroo, sold two jars of tea and a pressed-flower barrette to a shy winglett whose hair had a habit of falling into their eyes. They made a garland for Windan, thick with marigold for safe work and cedar sprigs for steady paws. Work did not vanish because a myth came knocking. Work was how Fleur managed both ordinary and extraordinary things at once.

Yet misfortunes had stopped. The pebble, the overspilling ribbon, the itch to fumble. In their place lay the hush of being watched by something far older than the village, but curious.

When the midday bell at the square rang and the smell of pumpkin soup drifted through the door, Finn returned from an errand with two steaming bowls. He set a bowl in front of Fleur and said, “We should bring something to the Autumn King. Right? You don’t go to court places empty-pawed.”

“A gesture would be polite,” Fleur agreed, tearing their bread into pieces. “Garlands?”

“Too ordinary,” Finn said, and then recoiled. “I mean, no, obviously your garlands are masterpieces, but this is a court. The court of the Autumn King.”

Fleur chewed in silence. They used it to choose the right words while the soup warmed the parts of them that the wind had chilled.

“We could press the edges of a reply with leaves,” they said. “Like the letter itself.”

“And music,” Finn added. “A song. We can’t show up without a beat.”

Fleur’s smile was more in their eyes than their mouth. “Write a good one.”

Finn’s mood brightened. “Chrysanthemum Clash will compose the official Patalum Autumn Anthem,” he announced.

Fleur went to the back to fetch the press-board and parchment they had once used for a wedding invitation that needed to look hand-made. They worked the afternoon between orders, laying leaves against deckle edges, tapping them gently with a wooden mallet to coax color into the fibers. They set fern fronds like green lace, tucked red maple into the corners, and walked outside to pluck a single tiny gold leaf from a volunteer birch that had sprung up beside the shop’s stoop.

They wrote their reply not to a fairy tale but to a sovereign who had chosen their quiet town.

To His Autumn Majesty, Fleur wrote in their careful hand, the shop’s quill dipping into the special ink they normally saved for contracts. Fleur of Patalum, florist and citizen, alongside Finn of Patalum, noise-maker and student of Pink’s class, thank you for your invitation. We will attend with gratitude and respect. Please accept this letter as a token from us.

They signed with their usual signature, small and neat, and then because Finn was watching with a kind of reverent mischief that could not be scolded, added a tiny drawn chrysanthemum at the bottom whose petals looked like flames.

Finn applauded. “Perfect. We need a courier. Should we leave a saucer of apple slices?”

“As offerings to mice?” Fleur asked, but their tone was affectionate and not entirely dismissive. “The helper will return, I think. Yellow has energy to spend.”

They did not have to wait long.

Near closing, with the sky changing itself into copper robes and the wind gathering itself for evening, the bell jingled not once but twice in quick succession to no visible paw. A blur zipped under the counter and reappeared on the top as if gravity were a suggestion. Yellow tilted its head at Fleur, pleased at its own punctuality. Its paws already opened eagerly, balancing on the edge of a hop.

“We have our answer,” Fleur told it, and extended the reply enveloped in pressed leaves.

The creature pressed its paws to its cheeks. Then, with a sudden, cheeky dart, it bounded into Finn’s legs, tangling him until he had no choice but to catch himself on the counter with an undignified “oof.” Yellow gave the letter a last approving pat, then began its departure; a flurry of pleased hops that became a crumble into golden leaves, a soft giggle caught in the room like a floating mote of dust.

“You’re welcome!” Finn called after the leaves.

The leaves were already still, but something in the air felt like amusement.

After they swept the golden pile into a jar, Finn declaring it a sacred souvenir and Fleur not arguing because jars of oddities had their place in a florist’s life, Fleur stepped outside to turn the sign to CLOSED. The sky over Patalum had shifted from orange and purple to a dark blue. Stars began to wink awake, smoke curled from chimneys, shepherds put their flocks to bed, Lelokos loped home and the pumpkin soup pot had been scrubbed and left to dry on the soup vendor’s porch.

Finn locked the door to the shop. “Do you think the Autumn King is real?” he asked.

“Some things don’t need our belief,” Fleur said. “They’re real whether we believe or not. The field turns and becomes seeds again in autumn. The sea carries fish even if we don’t watch it. The Autumn King… exists in the stories of Crederia and has sent messengers with letters and leaves. That is enough.”

Finn rocked on his heels, satisfied by the seriousness. “Then we’ll be ready. I’m wearing the jacket with the chain to court.”

Fleur smiled and they walked home together under trees red with cheer, through the brush of wheat that sounded like rain though the sky was clear.

At their small house, pots hung in tidy rows and a pressed-flower frame occupied a place on the mantle. Fleur lit a lamp and set a kettle. Finn sprawled at the kitchen table and immediately began to write verses. Lines about red leaves laughing, lines that made no sense, lines that would later become the spine of something surprisingly sophisticated once Clover, Rook and Mallow had their turns at it and drummed a rhythm on the tabletop.

“You’re excited,” Fleur observed.

“Obviously.” Finn stared at the blank space between stanzas as though it would write itself. “But it also…feels important.”

“It’s a shift,” Fleur answered and set two cups on the table, steam rising. “The kind that reminds you to dress for the weather with the changing of the seasons.”

“You sound like Pink,” Finn said, pleased. He leaned his chin into one paw. “What if everyone gets a letter?”

“Then the court will be full,” Fleur said. “And we will bring what we do best. You will make songs and I will make garlands.”

They ate a simple dinner that night and Finn later disappeared into the shed to rehearse what he’d written down. Fleur pressed more leaves, humming a song Finn had hummed for a week and then abandoned. Outside, Patalum settled into its evening shapes: the black shape of the hills, the soft shape of the fields and the bright windows of homes where soup warmed bellies and stories of Autumn Kings and Court repeated themselves for another generation.