Black Rat

Black Rat

The sun had dipped low, staining the clouds a soft marmalade hue. You wandered into a forgotten sliver of park—wedged between an old community garden and a crumbling stone wall, the kind of place no one landscaped on purpose, but where everything seemed to grow just right anyway.

There it was, nestled beneath a rusted bench: the next medallion, half-covered in dried clover. You brushed it off and touched it.

From under the bench, a voice squeaked.

“Oh no, no, no, don’t scream. Please don’t scream. I get that a lot.”

You froze, then peered beneath.

A black-furred rat sat there, tiny paws clasped, whiskers twitching with anxiety. Her eyes, though, were gentle. Wary, but hopeful.

“I—I’m not like them,” she said. “The ones that knock over bins and chew wires and scare café patrons. I mean, yes, technically, we’re related. But I’m me. I tidy. I alphabetize. I compost.”

You blinked.

“I’m Matilda,” she added, quietly. “It’s not elegant, but it’s mine.”

She padded out from the shadows, her tail curled neatly behind her like punctuation in a forgotten sentence. She seemed to brace for revulsion—but you didn’t flinch. Her shoulders relaxed.

“I know how people see me,” she said. “Disease, panic, the stuff of midnight scurries. But I carry stories too. Old ones. Hidden ones. Sewer songs and attic dreams. Someone’s got to keep them.”

You sat on the bench. She perched beside you, surprisingly still.

“What do you think the medallions are for?” you asked.

Matilda tilted her head.

“They’re invitations,” she said, with sudden certainty. “Not just for hearing. For seeing differently. The cracks in the world have always been there—between humans and the rest of us. But now someone’s slipped notes through the cracks. Bronze notes.”

She tugged a scrap of paper from beneath her fur, unfolded it with delicate claws. On it was a map so tiny it looked like a secret whispered onto parchment.

“Some of us think they’ll help rebuild trust,” she said. “Others think they’re a trick. I… I think they’re a test. Will humans rush through it? Will they listen? Will they care?”

She sighed, not sadly, but as if letting go of a breath she’d been holding for years.

“I told the muskrat. He said, ‘That’s poetic. Want to help me fix a dam?’ So. Not much of a philosopher, that one.”

You chuckled.

Matilda smiled, then stood.

“Well, I’ll let you go. Don’t want to keep you. Just… if you meet another rat, maybe don’t throw your shoe first.”

She slipped back beneath the bench, vanishing like a shadow into the underbrush.

And somehow, the evening felt quieter, as if the earth itself was listening a little more closely than before.