Lily always liked to listen beyond the usual noises. At the bus stop, she heard not only the hissing of the brakes, but also the leaves whispering together: shush-shush; and the pigeons knocking their feet on the pavement: tick-tock. One bright forenoon, in the middle of the town square, she dodged a puddle when a slender, fine tinkling sound pricked her ear. It wasn't like a bicycle bell; rather, it sounded like a laughing porcelain spoon.

In the puddle, deep in the water reflecting the clouds and the shoulder-shrugging pigeons, something glittered. Lily squatted down and pinched a tiny, silvery key between her fingers. The key's head was shaped like a musical note, and when she moved it, it tinkled as softly as if someone were shaking tiny glass marbles in a velvet bag. The key was warm, as if someone had held it in their palm not long ago.

"Whose are you?" whispered Lily.

The key didn't answer, but with a tiny tingling, it started to pull Lily's palm, as if it had a will of its own. Not strongly, only just enough that Lily noticed the key pulling her towards an old, blue-green painted newsstand. On the side of the stand was a tiny, painted door, just big enough for a cat to fit through. On the painted part, in the middle of the wood, was a knotty burl, like a hidden keyhole.

Lily's heart started to hammer. The tinkling key fit exactly into the burl's center. As soon as she turned it, the painted door thudded, stretched, and grew into a real door. From the stand, the scent of minty, inky, freshly opened books hit her nose, and Lily knew that she simply had to open this door.

Inside, a courtyard opened, but it was no ordinary kind: the cobblestones were comma- and comma-stub-shaped, the walls were overrun by letters instead of ivy. In the air, colorful words floated like soap bubbles, and in the middle, a swing hung. Its rope was thread spun from blue lines, and its plank was a ribbon woven from paper sheets, decorated with tiny stamps. When the swing moved, the words clinked, and a few thumped out from among them, like defiant ladybugs, and evaporated through the door gap she had left open.

"Hop-hop, stay, verbs! Hey, where do you rush, adjectives?" a bearded, dandelion-fluff gentleman ran towards Lily, swinging a harpoon woven from a sieve. In every pocket of his coat, something clattered: pencils, paper clips, and half a pack of milk toffee. "Hehe. And who are you, Key-guest?"

"I am Lily. The key... well... brought me here," stuttered Lily, and lifted the key that was ringing in her palm.

In the man's eyes, cheerfulness gathered. "I am Master Tangle, the caretaker of the Wordcourt, the repairmaster of the Wordswing, and the straightener of the askew inscriptions. The key is the Tinkler. It rarely chooses a master. It seems you hear, you notice. Big luck, because the Wordswing has gotten out of tune, and since then, words have been escaping into your streets. An amusing mess has become of them too: the baker's breads tell riddles, and the traffic light yawns. We must tune it back, otherwise the words will get bored of their home."

"I'll help," cut in Lily. The key vibrated in her fist, as if agreeing.

"The music of three bells is needed for the tuning," nodded Master Tangle. "The Bong is the deep humming, the Tinkle is the clear ringing, the Ring is the high swoosh. For these, we must acquire three sound-eyes: one from a grumbling mug, one from a laughing shoe, and one from a chirping shovel. The sound-eyes are round little pearls, each holding its voice inside. Ready?"

Lily nodded. Master Tangle snatched a carpet, folded from newspaper, from his coat. From the front pages, dragons looked out; on the edges, thick-lettered news fluttered.

"Up to the Dragon News!" he commanded. The carpet lifted itself, as if reading itself, and already carried them into the cloudy, yet sunlit sky, high above the floating book towers, ink rivers, and teacup-sized lakes. Lily looked down and saw clotheslines on which adjectives hung: sparkling, crisp, clumsy. In the air, laughter flew like flying fish.

Their first stop was the Hall of Grumbling Mugs: rows of shelves, on which sat mugs with all kinds of handles, stripes, and dots. They mumbled, growled, hummed; the walls trembled from their noise. At the end of one row stood a girl in a purple cap, holding a net that caught tiny words: "soon," "almost," "well."

"I am Scarlet, a magic apprentice," she nodded. "The 'soon' escaped again. Can I help you? I understand mug-grumbling."

"Exactly you are the one the mugs have been waiting for," winked Master Tangle. "We're looking for a sound-eye of deep humming."

In the lowest corner of the shelf, a flower-patterned, wide-mouthed mug sulkily turned its back. Lily squatted down to it.

"Hello. What makes you so grumpy?" she asked.

"Everyone just drinks out of me, but no one listens to my stories," grumbled the mug. "Though I am full of tea and tales at once."

"I'll listen to you," said Lily, and she really sat down, taking the mug into her palm. The buzz of the hall quieted, and the mug, in a deep, warm voice, started to tell a tale about a swirling tea circus. When it finished, from the root of its handle, a dark blue pearl popped out: the sound-eye of the deep Bong.

"Thank you," grumbled the mug, and it didn't even growl so much anymore.

On the Dragon News, they glided over to the Street of Laughing Shoes. There, shoes dangled, played hopscotch, their buckles tinkled, and their soles giggled tickling words. A swing was made from one shoelace, and a red sneaker started it, announcing: "If the foot laughs, the step makes music!"

"The Tinkle sound-eye is needed," explained Tangle. "But it only gives itself to one who dances the Tongue-twister Waltz."

Scarlet put down her net and, holding Lily's hand, formed a circle. The red shoe bounced a rhythm: spins right, slips left, heel-to-nose-lark! Lily laughed aloud, and they started to dance. Their tongues started to dance too, muttering a rhyme: "Dot-dot, spot-spot, spins the carp on the spot; tinkle-ring, tinkle-silent, rascal word swings into row!" By the time they finished, on the shoe's lace, a clearly ringing, silvery pearl grew. Lily slid it into her palm.

They looked for the third sound-eye at the Wind-ing Bridge. This was a fine, translucent arch between two book knots, and in the middle of the bridge hung a shovel, from whose corner tiny bells hung. The shovel chirped if the wind touched it, but now it only hesitantly cheeped.

"It got scared," established Scarlet. "The big draft ruffled its nerves."

Master Tangle dredged up a tiny, green-scaled creature from his pocket. "Sparky, little dragon, time to work!" Sparky came forth sneezing: Atchoo!—and colorful confetti flew everywhere. The chirping shovel laughed at the confetti, because it tickled its wind-membrane, and a golden-yellow, high-voiced pearl popped out of it. Sparky circled triumphantly.

"Got the Ring," grinned Tangle. "Back to the Wordcourt!"

However, the Dragon News suddenly jerked backward: the headline hanging on one of its sides fluttered up: "Hail in the bag!" The carpet swayed, and the pearls slipped in Lily's palm. The tinkling key spun too and tumbled out.

"Catch it!" shouted Scarlet, and threw out her net. The net caught a flitting "Whoa!" in the air, but the key fell farther.

Sparky ducked down, his scales flashed up, and cleverly slid under the key. The key dropped onto his back, and Sparky flew up to Lily. Lily let out a big sigh and hugged the little dragon. "You are a hero," she said.

By the time they stood in the Wordcourt again, Lily already knew that the three pearls must be placed into the bells above the Wordswing. On the stand of the swing, up among the planks, three little nests hid: one deep like a shell, the other shiny and smooth, the third feather-light and cobwebbed high above.

"Pay attention," whispered Tangle. "The order matters too. If it's wrong, the words become cranky and pinch each other. If it's good, they rock together. Listen to the noise of your city through the door."

Lily stepped closer to the door, which was open a crack. From a distance, she heard the laughing breads of the bakers, the yawning of the traffic light, the tick-tock of the pigeons. The base of the deep buzzing drummed there; above them, something clearly rang; and at the very top, a thin line swished. Lily nodded.

"First, the Bong," she said, and fitted the dark blue pearl into the shell nest. She touched the Tinkling key to it, and softly clicked: bon-gong.

"Then, the Tinkle," she whispered, and the silver pearl bounced into the shiny nest. With the key, she drew a pattern in the air: circle, dot, comma. The bell tinkled like light rain on striped glass.

"Finally, the Ring," she nodded, and the golden-yellow pearl smoothed into the high nest. With the tip of the key, she drew a tiny hook; the bell swished once and susurrated: swee-sh.

The Wordswing tensed, then took a deep breath. The words, which until now had flitted like scared birds, slowly organized themselves, like musical notes taming onto a line. The floating texts didn't flee anymore; they just rocked, and tiny, dismantling letter-threads fell back into the books, onto the boards, onto the labels. Through the door gap, Lily saw the traffic light stop yawning and start to hum, and the baker's breads no longer said riddles, but whispered recipes into the ears of the curious.

"No problem if a little playfulness remains," said Lily firmly. "It's good if the bench sometimes secretly gives a riddle on Thursdays."

"So be it," laughed Master Tangle, and the Tinkling key clanked with joy in his hand. "The words like to play. And you understand the order and the flight too. A rare pair."

Scarlet stepped forward and wound a tiny, colorful thread onto Lily's finger. "This is a laughter-thread. If you pull it, suddenly a good mood arises in your vicinity. Not big magic, but useful."

Sparky settled onto Lily's shoulder and whispered a tiny, smoky puff into her ear. From the puff, tiny comma-seeds fell into her palm. Master Tangle winked. "If you ever have big sentences, sow them. By spring, a few shadow trees will grow, on which syllables can rest."

The Tinkling key softly clanked, as if saying: "Let's go home." The door of the stand slowly narrowed back, and the painting became just a painting again. Lily stepped out into the square, which was just the same as when she entered – and yet, not. As if a smile hung in the corner of the air.

The next day, in school, under the corner of the grammar poster, something tiny moved. Lily squinted there: the seed of a comma had sprouted and cast a quite tiny shadow onto the paper. The teacher wrote onto the board: "Spelling." The word trembled for a moment, then calmed down on the line.

In her pocket, Lily fondled the Tinkling key. It didn't ring loudly, just exactly enough to know: if next time in the city a bench softly coughs up and begins to rhyme, there is where to go, there is the swing, there is the caretaker, and there is a key that hears when listened to.