Pockets believed all important things should fit in a pocket.
He tried to pocket a sunbeam—whoosh. It slipped through his fingers, warm and bright, but gone in an instant.
He tried to catch a breeze—whoooo. It tickled his nose, teasing, before darting away.
He cupped an echo—“Hello!”—but echoes, like memories, don’t sit still.
He even scooped a rainbow off the pond—drip, drop, gone.
He checked his pockets. Still empty.
One afternoon, while he sat on a mossy log, lost in thought, a girl skipped along the path. Her name was Mukur. Her laugh rang like little bells, her eyes sparkled like fireflies waking up in the dusk.
“Why the long face?” she asked, her voice like the breeze itself.
“My pockets are empty,” Pockets said, his voice soft, the weight of his heart heavy. “Maybe my heart is, too.”
Mukur tilted her head, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Want to play?”
They didn’t hunt for shiny things. Instead, they built the tallest leaf pile—crunch, whoosh!—and jumped until they were both leafy and laughing. Mukur taught him to whistle on a blade of grass. The first time he made a tiny tweet—fwee!—they cheered like champions. When rain went plip-plip, they ducked under a giant toadstool, and Mukur told a brave-mouse story until the shivers left his shoulders.
After each adventure, Pockets checked his pockets. Still empty.
They balanced across a fallen log. Pockets slipped. Mukur grabbed his hand, steady and sure. “Got you,” she said. He squeezed back, the warmth of her touch grounding him.
They shared a crunchy apple, one bite for her, one bite for him. They raced dragonflies, traced cloud-animals, and named a patient snail “Captain Slow.”
Pockets checked his pockets. Still empty.
One evening, the sky turned tangerine and pink. Crickets fiddled. Fireflies blinked—blink, blink—like tiny lanterns floating on the air. Pockets felt something warm and light rising in his chest, like the first light of dawn. It was a secret sunrise, just for him.
He touched his heart. “Mukur,” he whispered, “I feel full. But look—” He pulled his pockets inside out. “They’re still empty. Where is this coming from? I can’t hold it.”
Mukur placed her hand over her own heart, eyes soft with understanding. “Some treasures don’t fit in pockets,” she said gently. “Laughter, stories, kindness. When someone cares for you, and you care back, it settles in here,” she whispered, tapping her chest.
She smiled warmly, her voice softening with a quiet wisdom, “You can’t touch love, love touches you.”
Pockets didn’t speak for a long moment. His thoughts were a quiet dance of memories—the leaf pile, the grass-whistle, the steady hand on the log, the brave-mouse in the rain. He hadn’t been collecting things. He’d been collecting moments. Moments with a friend.
He smiled so wide his cheeks ached.
He checked his pockets one more time. Still empty.
But his heart? Full to the brim.
From that day on, Pockets still liked pockets. He filled them with little useful things—string, a bandage, a crumbly cookie to share. Yet the best treasure he carried needed no pocket at all.