Birth tales · No.3
The third neighbor
Of all the folk who came to the village after Wobby, the oldest one still living there is No.3.
Where did No.1 and No.2 go? Ask Wobby, and those sleepy eyes narrow even further. “Another time,” Wobby says. So nobody knows yet.
Where No.3 landed, a little pile of eraser crumbs had gathered. The ink drop rolled across the crumbs and curled up round and round. And that is how No.3 got such curly hair.
Back then, the village had nothing in it. No Marker Hills, no pencil-cup closet. No.3 blinked those long lashes at the empty paper, and the mouth went round. It was all so wide.
The first thing Wobby ever drew that was not a number tag was No.3’s blush. The paper looked so bare that Wobby dabbed two circles on those cheeks with a pink marker. That is where the village’s pink began.
No.3 is a little wider than the other folk. Living alone on an empty page, No.3 got used to taking up plenty of room.
Whenever a new neighbor arrives, No.3 is the first to run over, blink those lashes, and say: “It’s wider here than you think.”