Miss Andie's Dream Nursery
Draft Chapter 3: The Path Home
It was a rare kind of morning—the kind where the sky smiled open and the breeze felt like a song you almost remembered. Miss Andie stood just beyond the edge of the cottage garden, her long dark hair fluttering like a ribbon, her eyes full of knowing warmth. Beside her stood Mabel, tall and bright-eyed, her golden hair swept into a ponytail, and Scooby, a bundle of mischief with rich brown curls, cute glasses, and a toy dog tucked under her arm. Arlo, a scruffy, one-eyed cat with a tiny bell, circled their ankles. George, his sleek and regal opposite, trotted ahead with a feather stuck behind one ear like a crown.
"Today," Miss Andie said softly, "we go to the cliffs. We let the land speak."
Scooby’s eyes sparkled behind her glasses. "Will the cliffs talk to us?"
"Only if we’re listening," Miss Andie winked.
Mabel, clutching her well-loved dream journal, nodded. "I had one last night. A big one."
Their path curved up and over the rolling hills, where the heather blushed purple and golden gorse clung to the edges of worn sheep-trails. They walked slowly, speaking little, listening much. Arlo meowed dramatically anytime they paused too long, while George insisted on walking only in the patches of sunlight.
Miss Andie often paused, eyes closed, as though reading the air.
"The dreams we have at night," she said as they climbed a grassy knoll, "are invitations. Little letters from your deeper self. And when we go out into the world with those letters in our hearts, the world writes back."
Scooby reached up for her hand. "I dreamed of a fox made of light. It danced around me and then ran off into the wind."
Miss Andie knelt. "Then today we look for light-footed things. And trust they might find you again."
As they crested the final hill, the cliffs came into view—majestic, weathered, cradling the edge of their home town.
They paused there, wind tousling their hair, waves far below singing their constant lullaby. Arlo purred into the wind while George posed like a lion.
"Sometimes," Mabel said quietly, brushing back her windblown hair, "I feel like my dreams are just drawings in my head. Like they don’t mean anything."
Miss Andie turned to her. "Your dreams are like cliffs. The surface is beautiful—but there’s a whole world underneath, carved by tides you don’t always see."
They sat on a soft patch of moss and shared their lunch—warm scones wrapped in linen, elderflower tea in tiny cups. Arlo stole a bite of scone while George sniffed the tea suspiciously and decided it was not for him.
Scooby drew shapes in the dirt with a stick. "What if a dream is scary? Does that mean something awful is going to happen?”
"Not at all," Miss Andie said gently. “Scary dreams can actually be the most helpful ones. They are showing you where you are being ‘scary’ to yourself, and how you can be kinder so you stop making yourself feel bad”
As afternoon passed into evening, the light deepened, casting the cliffs in hues of rose and amber. Mabel wandered toward the edge, pausing before a wind-bent tree. She opened her journal and began to sketch—a blend of her dream horse and the cliffs.
Scooby picked up a pebble that shimmered oddly and held it to her heart. "This looks like the fox’s eye."
Miss Andie nodded. "Perhaps it is."
As the first stars blinked into the sky, Miss Andie stood and offered her hands.
"Come, dear dreamers. The dusk is calling us home."
They returned by a new path—worn smooth by stories and softened by starlight. The cats led the way now, tails held high.
And that night, Mabel dreamed of a cliff that opened like a book—and Scooby dreamed of the fox returning with fireflies in its tail. Arlo dreamed of flying mice. George refused to dream anything common.
Miss Andie dreamed of both girls glowing from within.
The Nursery had found them too.
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PART 2":
