Torbjorn was a tiny hedgehog tailor with paws no bigger than peppercorns, living in a workshop tucked beneath the velvet roots of Mossy Creek.

He was a master of the Silver-Stitch, using a needle forged from moonlight and thread spun by the wisest garden spiders.

One midnight, a sudden chime echoed through the roots as a silver star tumbled from the heights, snagging firmly onto Torbjorn’s prickly back.

The sky above now had a ragged, dark tear in its over-washed denim texture, and Torbjorn knew that without his help, the night would lose its shimmer. He gathered his spool of spider-silk, feeling the star’s fizzy, soda-pop heat against his quills, and set off to mend the heavens.