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He’s 37 cm of pure sweet mischief, and when he comes near you can tell because the air turns to cinnamon, like freshly ground coffee, but craving a hug. He wears a cinnamon-colored hat set just right, and a lichen-green little jacket that looks stolen from an old mossy stone: rough, weathered, full of stories.
He is a bit of a show-off, yes, but the kind you can’t help liking. He goes around flashing the shiny button that fastens his jacket, as if it were a medal won in a snail race. Then he disappears into the brambles, gathering forest fruits for his secret jam, always with cinnamon, always with joy.
- He greets the magpies and slips them made-up gossip
- He tastes the berries with an expert face, even when they stain his nose
- He listens to the rain tapping on jar lids to choose the very best one
When no one’s watching, he sings softly to the jars so they thicken on their own, and he swears it’s the button’s shine that makes the cinnamon behave like a dream.
