The Mystery of the Missing Mice

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The Thompson family huddled around their kitchen table as thunder crashed overhead. For three days, the storm had raged, turning their quiet street into a river of mud and fallen branches. Mrs. Thompson counted the jars in their pantry with worried eyes. "We have enough food," she said, "but only if we're careful." Eight-year-old Maya pressed her nose against the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. "Mom, why haven't we heard any mice in the cellar? They usually scratch around at night." Her mother paused, spoon halfway to the soup pot. "You're right. That is strange."

Mr. Thompson set down his newspaper, the candlelight flickering across his puzzled face. "The mice have been terrible this year. Just last month, they chewed through a whole sack of flour." He stood up slowly. "Maybe I should check the cellar. Make sure our supplies are safe." Maya jumped up. "Can I come too?" Her father nodded, grabbing a lantern from the shelf. As they opened the cellar door, a musty smell drifted up the wooden stairs. But something else was different. The usual scurrying sounds were completely absent. In fact, the cellar seemed almost too quiet.