Patchwick was made from scraps no one wanted.

A piece of green cloth from an old curtain. A blue patch from a forgotten coat. Two soft feathers from something that had been found outside the window one morning. The maker gave him one button eye, stitched the other side open, and placed him on a little round base where he could watch the room.

That was the mistake.

Owls are supposed to sleep during the day.

Patchwick never slept at all.

At first, people thought he was charming — crooked, colorful, strange in a cute little way. But every night, his head seemed turned in a new direction. Toward the door. Toward the bed. Toward the corner where the shadows were thickest.

Then came the soft tapping.

Three tiny taps on the wall.

Three tiny taps on the window.

Three tiny taps from inside the closet.

No one ever saw him move, but everyone heard his stitches tightening in the dark, one by one, like little bones clicking together.

Children said Patchwick could count secrets. Adults laughed at that, until they noticed the owl always turned toward whoever was lying.

And his button eye never blinked.

They say Patchwick does not hunt mice.

He hunts the thoughts people try to hide.

So if you ever wake up and hear three soft taps beside your bed, keep your eyes closed.

Because Patchwick is asking a question.

And he already knows the answer.