Poorimole [top] -

Every year around the month of Adar, when the humans above spun noisemakers and dressed in costumes for Purim, Schmuel felt a strange stirring. He would dig toward the surface—not to emerge, but to listen. He heard the story of Esther, read aloud through the soil: a queen who hid her people like seeds in her sleeves, a villain who fell, a reversal written in scrolls.

And Schmuel, the poorimole, wept—not from sorrow this time, but because even in the dark, someone had looked for him. poorimole

Above, the child whispered into the hole: “I see you, little mole. Happy Purim.” Every year around the month of Adar, when