Mrs. Mossie Wagtail once travelled the world as the devoted assistant to an eccentric explorer. She packed the maps, brewed the tea, and remembered which suitcase held the spare socks and the secret letters.

When her companion passed, Mossie was left with a weathered trunk full of keepsakes—and nowhere to go.

She wandered for a time, until she found a crooked attic space above an old bookshop and decided to stay. With shelves lined in leather tags and drawers full of compass charms, The Velvet Attic opened quietly one Thursday morning.

She wraps every parcel with string, tucks in a tiny handwritten note, and remembers every traveller’s name—even those just passing through.

Mossie doesn’t offer directions.
She offers remembrance.

And for those who’ve been a little lost, that’s often more than enough.

Professor Thistlewhisk used to teach mechanical studies at a grand old academy. But his lectures—half technical, half tales about the “emotional lives of clocks”—were too peculiar for the school board.

Dismissed with a gold watch and a thank-you letter, he packed up his tools and followed the sound of something ticking oddly in the woods.

He found Beedilly Lane, and in a crooked little shop, he now repairs timepieces and tells visitors their imagined histories.

“This one,” he says, holding a worn pocket watch, “belonged to a sailor who timed storms with it and once used it to propose.”

He talks to his clocks. They tick back.

And for customers unsure of their next step, he always suggests waiting just five more ticks—

“Sometimes the answers are just running a little behind.”

Mrs. Honeytail has the warmest paws and the busiest calendar in Beedilly Lane.

She ran a sewing circle in a much noisier village once, but left when she realised she was always rushing and no one ever finished their tea. She arrived at Beedilly Lane with a patchwork quilt, three cake tins, and a dream of soft hems and slower days.

At Petal & Plume, she tailors clothes to fit not just bodies—but moods. “You’re a plum-coloured day,” she once told Wren, before handing her a velvet shawl and a scone.

Her shop always smells of cinnamon. There’s always lemon drizzle on the counter. And no one leaves without something warmer—either in their hands or their heart.

Lettie Lavendernose was once an apothecary in the city, but her whispers got lost beneath the clatter. She longed for stillness, and one day followed the smell of thyme and rain until she found it.

Her shop, Lavender Lane, hums quietly. Bundles of herbs sway from the rafters, soft paw-written labels read: “For when the world is too much,” and “One sniff before sleep.”

She brews tea that settles hearts.

She sells jars that carry hope.

Some say her calming spells work.

Others just feel better when they’ve been near her for a while.

No rush. No fixing. Just rest.

Miss Wisterwhip once presided over the most fashionable tea salons in town. Her posture was perfect, her gossip sharp, and her scones legendary. But underneath the porcelain and plum jam, she longed for something more genuine—less performance, more presence.

She arrived at Beedilly Lane with her tea set, her theatrical sighs, and a single suitcase labelled “Better Days Ahead.”

Now, her tea shop, Wisteria & Whimsey, is a blend of proper manners and second chances. She still insists on good posture—but she’ll also refill your cup three times and slip you a napkin if tears arrive uninvited.

Her motto?
“Steep it longer. Speak your truth. Pass the sponge.”

Behind the dramatics lives a deeply loyal soul.

Her tea isn’t just warming—it’s permission to begin again.

Willa inherited her great-grandmother’s jewellery box—and never stopped imagining who the pieces once belonged to.

Did this brooch survive a thunderstorm?

Did this locket once hold a leaf instead of a photo?

She arrived at Beedilly Lane with a suitcase of trinkets and a head full of stories.

Now, her shop, The Timeless Trinket, offers pieces both real and imagined. Some carry truth. Others carry comfort.

She lets the customer decide.

Her windows are lined with velvet trays and soft-spoken promises.

Her quiet belief: every broken thing has a history, and every history deserves beauty.

Mr. Thistleburr is the kind of rabbit who builds without bragging.

He worked for years behind factories, fixing the machinery that no one thanked him for.

But he had a secret—he loved flowers.

He carved them into hinges and hammered them into hidden corners.

Tired of pretending function mattered more than feeling, he left the noise behind and opened Rust & Roses. The shop smells of metal and lavender oil. It’s full of boxes that click open with secrets, tools that feel like heirlooms, and doors that sing when shut.

He grumbles. He scowls.

But when someone’s heart is heavy, he’ll always fix the broken hinge for free.

And sometimes, he leaves a daisy etched where only they’ll notice.

Posie used to run a little flower cart in a coastal town, until one stormy afternoon, the wind swept both her cart and her courage halfway across the hills. 

She followed the trail of scattered petals, unsure where she was headed, until she stumbled into Beedilly Lane—drenched, daisy-covered, and laughing.

She never left.

Her shop, Vintage Blooms, is filled with flowers that match feelings: bluebells for bravery, buttercups for good moods, and forget-me-nots for... well, obvious reasons.

She tucks blooms behind ears and between teacups.

She believes every day deserves a flower, even if it’s only one.

If you’re having a bad day, Posie won’t ask what’s wrong.

She’ll just hand you a bunch of sunflowers and say,
"Come back tomorrow. We’ll try again together."

Mr. Bramblecog used to work in a grand lab where everything was precise and nothing was silly.

But he liked silly.

He wanted teapots that danced and spoons that stirred themselves.

Laughed out of his position, he packed up his soot-covered notebook and followed a pigeon wearing a monocle (true story) straight to Beedilly Lane.

His shop, Copper & Clover, smells of toast and burnt sugar. It’s chaotic, warm, and full of machines that probably shouldn’t work—but do.

He once built a kettle that whistled your favourite tune.

No one knew how it guessed.

He just shrugged and said, “It listens better than most folk.”

People come to him for whimsy. But they leave with wonder.

Aunt Wren was the kind of rabbit who always knew where your missing mitten had gone and how long your tea had steeped—even when you didn’t.

She raised half a warren of nieces and nephews before deciding it was time to do something just for herself. But her idea of “just for herself” turned out to be The Linen Loft—a place so filled with homeyness it feels like a hug the moment you walk in.

She sells aprons, cloths, and carefully folded tea towels.

Each one smells faintly of lavender and memory.

She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t judge.

She simply says, “There now. That’s better.”

And somehow, it is.

She reminds you that care is in the details.

And that the smallest acts of love—folded, stitched, or brewed—last the longest.

Juniper once lived deep in the forest, collecting dropped feathers and lost acorns, shiny stones and curled leaves. 

She wore them like treasure and believed each one held a secret.

When she arrived at Beedilly Lane, she brought with her a pouch of forest things and a deep love of sparkle—not the polished kind, but the kind that caught the light when no one else noticed.

Her shop, Pearl & Pine, is full of quiet jewellery.

Tiny lockets, whispered wishes, charms carved from old bark.

She often says, “Not all treasure is buried. Some of it is carried.”

And her pieces seem to find the exact person who needs them.

She offers not jewels—but reminders.

That you are part of the world. And the world is part of you.

Miss Brambelhop wandered into Beedilly Lane carrying a basket of nothings: a rusty key, a paperclip twisted into a heart, and a stone with a dent that looked like a sigh.

She didn’t speak much that first week. Just wandered. Watched. 

Placed one item on a shelf, then another. 

By the end of the month, she had a shop: small, dusty, full of boxes marked “Important,” “Maybe Important,” and “Feels Important.”

When people visit, she never pressures them. She simply says,
"Take the thing that hums to you. Even if it makes no sense.”

Because Brambelhop believes lost things still carry stories.

Even when people forget them.

Especially then.