Spoons and Silver

They come when the house exhales, when the last lamp flickers out and the clutter of day lies still. The spoon-fae step softly from folds of moonlight, their wings like spilled milk. They are gatherers, not thieves; spoons, they say, hold traces of us the warmth of soups, the sweetness of tea, the quiet intimacy of dawn. In return, they leave coins in messes. Not for payment, but as reminders that even disorder has worth. Their homes, beneath old oaks,gleaming with hung spoons barter memories keeping their hidden world alive. When morning stirs, they vanish, leaving silver glimmers and whispers behind.