The Book in
the Garden

One morning, in every corner of the Land, every mailbox flag went up at exactly the same time.

Snail mail. For everyone.

Every single letter — all twenty-six — opened an envelope written in looping silver ink. "Dear friend, at the heart of the Land grows a garden no letter has ever seen. Today, its gate will open. But only when ALL of you arrive. Every letter matters. Come. Your friend always, Mr. Snail the Mailman."

And so, from every path and meadow and valley, the alphabet walked, rolled, hopped, danced, and glided toward the heart of the Land. But when the letters gathered at the gate, it did not open.

"The garden says someone is missing."

The letters counted. A, B, C... all the way to Z. Twenty-five. Everyone looked at everyone. And then everyone smiled, because everyone knew.

Up on the hill, with a paintbrush in hand, sat U, painting the sky, the way U always did.

"U!" the whole alphabet called together. "We need U!"

U laughed, packed up the paints, and came running. The moment U's foot touched the path, the gate sighed open like the first page of a new book.

Oh, the garden.

Spiral paths curled through it like the inside of Mr. Snail's shell. Zinnias bloomed where bees went zzz. Stepping stones from the creek crossed a little stream. The fine fat jug from the clearing stood full to the brim with flowers. The gray cat was already there, asleep in the warmest spot. And at the center rose the oldest tree in the Land, the one with the kind face carved in its bark, branches spread wide like open arms.

Beneath the tree, on a pedestal of stone, lay a book. It was bound in silver bark, like the Mirror Book's grandmother. And on its cover, in letters of gold:

THE STORY OF US.

The owl from the library perched on the pedestal, spectacles shining. "I told you. One day, all the letters would open the greater book together."

So they did. A and Z turned the cover, one from each end of the alphabet.

And inside, they found themselves.

Every adventure was a chapter. Every chapter had needed them all. Then E whispered: "Look." The very last page was blank.

"Why is it empty?" asked Q, holding U's hand.

The carved face in the old tree rumbled gently. "Because the story is not finished. No good story ever is. The last page is waiting for the one reader this book was always for."

"Who?" asked the alphabet, all together.

The tree's old eyes seemed to look right out of the garden, past the gate, past the Land, all the way to right here.

"The child listening to this story."

The letters gasped with joy. Then, all at once, they knew what to do. A reached for B's hand. B reached for C. Hand by hand, sound by sound, the whole alphabet joined in a great chain around the garden, A to Z.

Will you help them? Say their names slowly, like a song: A... B... C...

As the chain joined, the blank page began to glow. Letters lifted off the paper like fireflies, swirled in the evening air, and settled softly back down in a brand new order.

They spelled a name. Your name.

"Every letter matters," said Mr. Snail, with the slowest, happiest smile of his long, slow life. "And every reader matters most of all. That is who we make the words for."

So if you are very quiet, and very still, you can hear what the whole alphabet said next — all twenty-six voices together, from the garden at the heart of the Land of Letters and Words.

They said it loud. They said it proud.

And they meant it about you.