At the local café, Matty and Jill had found a cosy table by the window. Ember settled beside them, while Bernie climbed onto his chair with a clunk. “Careful,” said Matty. “You’ll scratch the seat.” “I prefer to think of it as leaving my maker’s mark.”

Cinder appeared with a tray of drinks and cake! “Hello, you lot!” She set down their coffees and handed Bernie a tiny cup topped with fluffy milk. Bernie peered inside. “That’s rather small.” “It’s a babyccino,” said Cinder. “Does it come in kiln sizes?” “Try that one first.”

Soon the table was full of warm cups, happy chatter and a plate of cakes. Bernie listened politely, although his eyes kept drifting towards the chocolate one. Cinder noticed a red glove creeping across the table. “Bernie…” “I’m checking it.” “For what?” “Structural integrity.” Matty raised an eyebrow. “With your fingers?” Bernie paused. “A thorough inspection requires several methods.”

Jill pushed the plate towards him. “Go on, then. We’ll share.” That stopped him. He looked at the cake, then around the table. “Have you got five little plates, Cinder?” “Five?” “Well, you’ll need some too.” Cinder smiled. “Save mine. My break’s in a minute.”

Carefully, Bernie divided the cake into five pieces. His piece was slightly bigger, so he pinched a little off and added it to Cinder’s. “There,” he said. “Quality control complete.” They stayed longer than they meant to. Cinder pulled up a chair for her break. Matty told a story that made Jill spill a little coffee. Ember laughed so hard she had to take her glasses off. Bernie got chocolate on his name badge. For once, there was nothing waiting to be glazed, checked or taken out of the kiln.

When they finally stood to leave, Bernie glanced back at Cinder, already carrying her tray towards the counter. “Can we have another break tomorrow?” “We’ve only just had one,” said Ember. “Yes,” said Bernie, slipping his red glove into her hand. “But I think I’m getting rather good at them.” From behind the counter, Cinder called, “I’ll put the kettle on!”

“It’s autumn,” said Mr Pots. “Well, somebody should tell it to be more careful.” A golden leaf floated down and landed in Bernie’s red glove. He looked up at the empty twig. “Don’t worry. I’ll put you back.” Bernie fetched a little clay from Ember’s table, pressed it around the leaf’s stalk and held it against the branch. “There. Good as new.”

The leaf drooped. Bernie straightened it. The leaf drooped again. “Mr Pots. Hold the wind.” “I’ll see what I can do.” Ember came outside carrying a freshly finished Raku oak leaf. Copper, gold and turquoise shimmered across its surface. “Bernie, what are you doing?” “Repairs.” Ember smiled. “That leaf has finished its job on the tree.” “But it belongs there.” “It did,” she said gently. “Now it can do something else.”

Bernie looked doubtful. “Like what?” “Shelter tiny creatures. Become part of the soil. Or give us an idea.” She picked up a fallen leaf and ran her finger along its veins. “This is where my clay leaves begin.” Bernie glanced from the papery leaf to the shining pottery in her hands. “That brown little thing gave you the idea for that?” “It did.” “Very clever for something without a chimney.”

Ember laid the natural leaf beside her ceramic one. “I can’t keep every autumn leaf forever. But I can make something that reminds me of the tree, the colours, or a lovely walk.” Mr Pots leaned closer. “A little piece of autumn to keep.”

Bernie stopped pressing the leaf against the twig. “So letting go doesn’t mean it stops being important?” “No,” said Ember. Just then, a breeze slipped through Clay Corner. The golden leaf lifted from Bernie’s glove, twirled past Mr Pots and settled beside the shed. Bernie watched it go. “Excellent landing,” he whispered.

Then he hurried to Ember’s table. “May I help make a clay one?” “Of course.” Ember rolled out the clay. Bernie chose a leaf with beautifully wobbly edges. Together, they pressed its veins into the soft surface. Bernie lifted the leaf carefully. Its pattern stayed behind. “Oh,” he said. “It’s left us a little something.”

Ember smiled. “It has.” Mr Pots inspected their work. “Much better than repairing the tree.” Bernie nodded. “Although I did nearly finish.” A leaf fluttered down onto his lid. He looked up. “Now that one can stay.” “Why?” asked Ember. Bernie grinned. “Autumn hat.”

Mr Pots raised an eyebrow. “You missed several.” “They were hiding behind your feet.” Just then, a flutter of wings landed on the garden fence. A little robin looked down at Bernie. Bernie looked up at the robin. “Oh,” he whispered. “We’ve missed one.”

“That one isn’t made of clay,” said Mr Pots. “I can see that. It’s moving without permission.” The robin hopped along the fence and tilted its head. Bernie tilted his lid. The robin puffed out its red breast. Bernie polished his yellow badge. “I think he likes me.”

“Perhaps he’s wondering what you are,” said Mr Pots. Bernie stood a little taller. “Bernie Pots. Assistant maker. Reveal expert. Occasional counter.” The robin sang three bright notes. “Lovely to meet you too.” Ember came outside and stopped beside them. “Well, hello, little visitor.” She watched the robin for a moment, smiling. “I saw a robin at Foxton Locks once. That’s what gave me the idea to make these.” “Did you bring that one home?” “No,” said Ember. “I brought the memory home.”

Bernie thought about this. “Where did you put it?” Ember rested a hand over her heart. “Here, to begin with. Then I made something in clay to help me remember.” The robin hopped closer. “My gran loved robins,” Ember said. “Someone else might see one and think of their dad, or a friend, or a lovely afternoon together.” “Can one little bird remind people of all those things?” “Different people carry different memories.”

Bernie gently picked up a clay robin. “So this little one could have a very important job.” “It could,” said Ember. Mr Pots nodded. “Keeping something precious close.” The real robin gave another little song, then flew into the trees. Bernie waved both red gloves. “Goodbye! Excellent inspection!”

He carefully placed the clay robin beside Ember. “For your rings,” he said. “And your memory.” Ember smiled. “Thank you, Bernie.” Bernie glanced towards the fence. “Do you think he’ll come back?” “Perhaps,” said Mr Pots. “Good. Next time, I’ll ask him to help with the counting.” “Can he count?” Bernie tilted his lid. “He got to tweet.”

“Can you find a place for them, Bernie?” she asked. Bernie carefully moved the hearts around. But wherever he put the white one, it looked different from the others. “This little heart doesn’t match,” he said. “Where does it belong?”

Cinder came to stand beside him. “We don’t all match either,” she said. “Mum has silver curls, I have brown hair, and you have a chimney.” Bernie looked up at Mr Pots. “And some of us have much bigger chimneys.” Mr Pots gave a warm chuckle.

Ember gently touched the little white heart. “A family doesn’t have to look the same,” she said. “We just need to make room for each other.” So Bernie tucked it between the colourful hearts. Cinder moved them closer until none stood alone. The sunlight caught their different colours, and Bernie smiled. Every little heart had found its place.

Mr Pots raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps you should count them, Bernie.” Bernie counted once. Then twice. Then he peeked behind the biggest pumpkin. “They’re all here,” he announced. “But this one definitely needs a snack!” Ember Pots laughed. “Let’s find them homes before they eat the whole patch.” So Bernie polished his badge, straightened his chimney and stood guard. Every time a pumpkin found a new home, he gave it a very important wave. “Mind your manners,” he whispered. “And absolutely no nibbling the furniture!” Mr Pots smiled. “A little kiln with a big responsibility.” “And very hungry pumpkins,” said Bernie.