Deep inside Santa’s workshop, behind tall shelves of toys and under long wooden tables, lived a tiny grey mouse named Nibble.
Nibble was very small—smaller than a teacup, smaller than a mitten—but he had very quick paws and the neatest whiskers in the North Pole.
Every morning, when the workshop bells rang and the elves hurried in, Nibble woke up too.
He stretched his little paws and said, “Time to work.”
The workshop was always busy before Christmas.
Elves hammered and painted.
Dolls blinked their eyes.
Toy trains puffed tiny clouds of steam.
Nibble didn’t build toys.
He didn’t paint toys.
He didn’t test toys.
Nibble wrapped them.
He folded paper carefully, smoothing every corner. He tied ribbons into perfect bows and pressed labels straight and tidy.
“No wrinkles,” Nibble whispered. “No crooked bows.”
Most of the time, no one noticed.
The elves rushed past, carrying toys in stacks. Santa checked lists and laughed loudly.
Nibble watched quietly from his wrapping table, a little pile of shiny paper beside him.
I help too, he thought. Even if no one sees.
One evening, Nibble overheard the elves talking.
“Look at this rocket I built!” one elf said.
“My puzzle is perfect!” said another.
Nibble looked down at his paws.
“I wish someone noticed my work,” he sighed.