The Little Mailbox on Avery’s Windowsill

Avery had seven questions for the Tooth Fairy, and the mailbox on the windowsill was barely bigger than a muffin.

It stood beside a cup of crayons, with a brass slot and a painted blue door. Avery had made it from a small wooden box. A paper label on the front said, “For Wren.”

The questions were written on a sheet of notebook paper. What happened to a baby tooth after it was collected? Did it get washed? Where did it go? Did fairies keep every tooth? Could a tooth be lonely? Did it have a name? And could Avery ever see it again?

Avery had lost a front tooth that afternoon. It was tucked in a little envelope beneath the pillow. Before bed, Avery folded the long list and slid it into the mailbox.

“Please answer all seven,” Avery whispered toward the window. “I really want to know.”

In the morning, the envelope was gone. In its place sat a note so small that Avery had to hold it near the window to read.

It said:

“Your tooth is safe.”

Beside the words was a picture: a tooth shaped like a moon, with several little stars around it.

Avery frowned. “That’s all? I asked seven questions.”

The little mailbox had no other notes inside. Avery checked beneath it, behind the crayon cup, and even inside the cup. Nothing.

At breakfast, Avery kept thinking about the answer. Safe where? Safe how? What about washing? What about the name? The note had not answered any of those things.

That evening, Avery sat at the windowsill and read the tiny message again. The tooth-shaped moon seemed to be looking back. Its stars were arranged in a curve, as if they were pointing somewhere.

“I guess Wren didn’t read the rest,” Avery said, though the words came out quieter this time.

Avery turned the note over. The back was blank. The questions still waited on the long sheet, all crowded together.

The mailbox stood ready beside the crayons. Avery picked up a blue one, then set it down. Maybe Wren had missed the list. Maybe the answer meant something Avery couldn’t see. Avery looked once more at the moon-shaped tooth and its tiny trail of stars.

The next morning, Avery brought the note to the breakfast table. The tooth-shaped moon looked different in daylight. One star sat close to its pointed root. Three more made a little path toward the edge of the paper.

Avery turned the note sideways. “Oh,” Avery said. “It’s a picture answer, too.”

That night, Avery took a fresh sheet and wrote just one question: “Where is my tooth?” Under the words, Avery drew a tooth with a question mark above it. The paper was folded small enough to fit through the mailbox slot.

In the morning, a new note waited inside. Wren’s letters were tiny and neat.

“Moonlit collection room.”

Beside the words, Wren had drawn a round room with shelves and a window. Avery pictured the tooth resting there, not lost or forgotten.

Avery drew a little shelf and wrote, “Is it clean?”

The next morning’s answer said, “Yes. I brush each tooth with a soft, dry brush.” Wren had drawn a brush with bristles no bigger than whiskers.

Avery’s shoulders loosened. “Now I know one thing,” Avery said.

The next question was, “Do you keep every tooth?” Avery drew a row of tiny teeth. Wren’s reply came the following morning:

“I keep them safe in the moonlit room. Each one gets its own little place.”

Beside the note, she had sketched a shelf with labeled spaces. Avery could almost imagine Wren moving carefully along it, carrying a tooth in both hands.

Avery still had questions, but now they did not crowd together like a pile of laundry. One at a time, they became easier to ask. Avery drew a small tooth with a heart beside it and wrote, “Can teeth be lonely?”

Wren replied, “They rest together, and I visit them.” She had drawn a tiny fairy sitting on a stool between two shelves, holding a book.

Avery laughed softly. “That answers that.”

There were two questions left on Avery’s list. The mailbox could hold only a little writing, but it could hold a drawing, too. Avery had figured out how to make room: one question, one picture, and time to wait for the answer.

Avery’s next note showed a tooth wearing a name tag. Under it, Avery wrote, “Do you give them names?”

Wren’s reply came the following morning. “Their people give them names. I keep the names with the teeth.” She drew a tiny card beside a tooth. On it, Avery could just make out the word “Avery.”

Avery reread the note twice. “You remembered,” Avery whispered.

Only one question remained. Avery colored a little tooth blue and drew it beneath a small bed. “Can I see my tooth again?” the note asked.

Wren’s answer arrived the next morning, with a picture of the moonlit room’s window. Beyond it, stars marked the dark sky.

“Not in person,” Wren wrote. “But you can remember it, and I will keep it safe.”

Avery studied the message. It wasn’t quite the answer Avery had hoped for, but it was honest. The tooth had a place, a name, and a careful keeper. That felt good to know.

For a while, Avery sat by the window with the notes spread around the mailbox. Each one was short. Each picture made the words a little bigger. The moon-shaped tooth from the first note sat in the middle of the group, with its small starry path.

Avery took a clean piece of paper and drew one last picture: a tooth tucked beneath a cozy blanket. The blanket had little squares and a pillow at one end. Avery slipped the drawing into the mailbox without adding any words.

In the morning, there was no new note. Avery wasn’t disappointed. Wren had answered the questions, and Avery had sent a picture back. The little mailbox was empty, and that seemed just right for now.

Avery returned the old notes to a safe place in the desk drawer. The tiny pictures were easy to remember: a brush, a shelf, a name tag, a fairy with a book, and a moon-shaped tooth among its stars.

That night, Avery checked the windowsill once more. The mailbox stood beside the cup of crayons, its small door closed. Avery knew Wren could write again whenever she wished, and she was welcome to do so.

Avery turned out the lamp and settled into bed, thinking of a clean tooth resting safely on its own little shelf in the moonlit room.