Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Moon and the Maker's Mark

Episode Date: October 19, 2026

Our story tonight is called The Moon and the Maker’s Mark, and it’s a story about a friendship born on an autumn day and plans made in the dark of night. It’s also about quart jars and canned pumpkin, burnished copper and baking cookies and a soft spell made by loving hands. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Looking Out Foundation, amplifying the impact of music by awarding grants, engaging community, and creating powerful partnerships. Subscribe to our ⁠⁠⁠Premium channel⁠⁠⁠. The first month is on us. 💙 → OneSkin | Get 15% off OneSkin with the code NOTHINGMUCH at https://www.oneskin.co/NOTHINGMUCH  #oneskinpod → Shopify | Whether it's a hobby, a passion, or a long-held idea, Shopify can help you bring it to life. Start with a free trial at https://www.shopify.com/nothingmuch Join the Village of Nothing Much App!Order Kathryn’s new book On the Street Where You LiveNMH Merch, Autographed Books and More!Listen to our daytime show, Stories from the Village of Nothing MuchSit Meditation with KathrynFollow us on InstagramVisit Nothing Much Happens for more Village fun!Sign up for our Newsletter here to be in the know! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more, nothing much happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. One Skin is sponsoring this episode, and I've been trying their new OS1 face-rich cream. I was excited to get it since dry winter weather is right around the corner, and that's when my skin needs a richer, thicker moisturizer. My evening skin care is like a little loving ritual I do for myself, and adding one's skin's face-rich cream feels so good. It's rich without being heavy, and even hours later, when I wake up in the morning, my skin still feels moisturized and soft. One skin developed this rich cream to support hydration and skin's moisture barrier with their OS1 peptide. It's designed to help skin look firmer, more hydrated, and smoother over time. Born from over 10 years of skin longevity research, one skin is helping you unlock your healthiest skin now and as you age. For a limited

time, try their new OS1 face-rich cream with 15% off using code nothing much at oneskin.co slash nothing much. That's 15% off at one skin.co with code nothing much. After you purchase, they'll ask where you heard about them, and please support our show. Tell them we sent you. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week,

and this week we are giving to Looking Out Foundation, amplifying the impact of music by awarding grants, engaging community, and creating powerful partnerships. Learn more about them in our show notes. You may have already noticed that tonight's is a particularly long episode. And I just want to say that in the time of AI, scraping my content, to build lookalike shows with computer voices on pretty much a weekly basis, we at nothing much happens have a team of hardworking, creative humans doing all the things this show and work

requires. In fact, I intended to write a story just of the regular length, was setting out to do a little less this month, to take some extra rest myself. But when I started writing this story, it just kept going. And I care so much about bringing you original, soothing, and charming content that I wrote twice as much as I normally would. Now, would AI do that for you? A.Rumpf. So, if supporting humans, making the things you care about is important to you, you can do that by sharing this show with others, leaving a five-star review, and of course, by subscribing to our premium membership for pennies a day. It's all at nothing. much happens.com.

Now, as I step down from my soapbox and put on my Mr. Rogers cardigan, let me remind you that all you need to do now for good sleep is listen. I'll tell her story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. if you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to just push play, and you'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called the moon and the maker's mark. And it's a story about a friendship born on an autumn day

and plans made in the dark of night. It's also about quart jars and canned pumpkin. burnished copper and baking cookies, and a soft spell made by loving hands. When I started, nothing much happens. I was thinking about stories, not e-commerce, but as the business crew, we needed a storefront, and Shopify made that part much easier. It's simple to set up. The design tools help you build a beautiful store without being a web designer, and ShopPay makes checkout easy for customers. I really like that Shopify lets me stay focused on my creative work

while giving us the tools we need to actually run the business. If you're ready to hear the chiching of your first sale today, head over to Shopify.com slash nothing much to start your free trial today. That's right, start your free trial at Shopify.com slash nothing much. that's Shopify.com slash nothing much. So snuggle down my little trick or treaters. I will take the next watch.

You have done enough for the day. Let your whole body relax and your attention just rest on the sound of my voice. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in. And out. Good. And the maker's mark.

I knocked on the back door of the bakery and looked up and down the alley to see if anyone was out this late. But it was as quiet as the grave. At the corner a street lamp guttered for a moment. moment. And in a dimly lit window, high up three buildings over, a shadow moved behind a curtain. Otherwise, not a soul stirred. Well, not that I could tell anyway. Souls aren't my specialty, you see. Each of us in the circle of witches here in the village. had a bit of extra talent in some particular branch of magic,

and mine wasn't in peering through the veil. Mine was something more tangible, and dare I say, delightful. That was why I was standing in the alley behind the bakery, late at night, with a basket of handmade cookie-cutters, just as I raised my hand to knock again. I heard the lock turn, and the door opened. The baker stepped back to let me in and locked the door behind us again.

What's this about? she whispered, though we were alone now in the bakery. I'd called her the day before, asking for a favor, asking to meet me here after the village had gone to sleep, and not to tell anyone. She'd agreed. But I'd heard, in her voice, equal parts, hesitation, and excitement. There were only a few villagers who knew about us. knew about the Curios shop and our magical community-minded members, but she was one of them. It had happened the autumn before. I'd been in line at the bakery counter, breathing in the sense of apple turnovers and cinnamon raisin bread,

when a red-faced delivery driver had shuffled up to her and said, He'd taken the turn too hard coming through the alley and heard a terrible crash from the back of his truck. He'd been bringing cases of home-canned pumpkin for the Thanksgiving pies, boxes and boxes of tall glass mason jars. And from the sound he'd heard, he'd been too afraid to look, but guessed that there couldn't be more than a few left unbroken. The baker had immediately put a hand on his arm

and reassured him that he shouldn't worry that accidents happen and that she could go out and they could look together and figure out the next step from there. Her kindness was so instant like it had been right there in the front pocket of her apron, and she could easily hand it over to anyone who needed it. And I knew I wanted to help. It wouldn't be easy, but I had done harder things before.

I swept my hair up into a clip so I could think better and pushed the sleeves of my sweater up my arms. I snuck out the front door of the bakery and rushed down the side street to the alley. They were just stepping out of the back door as I crept around the far side of the delivery truck. Even with the back roll-up door shut, I could see some orangeish liquid dripping from the bumper, which confirmed the driver's dread. I worked often with clay and even stone. I had a way of nudging natural materials into shape.

But usually that magic happened on my pottery wheel, and this was so much more complex. I needed to convince the broken glass, persuaded to come back together somehow, around all of that cooked pumpkin. Luckily, I'm not an overthinker, so I just planted my feet and pressed my palms to the side of the truck.

I thought about grains of silica sand and quartz. I thought of the soda ash added to the mix to lower the melting point. an oven's hot enough to break down the crystal structures till their atoms lost their fixed positions. I focused all of those thoughts on the contents of the truck and took quick breaths as if my lungs were a set of bellows that could pump oxygen into the heart of the fire.

I could hear the baker and the driver talking on the other side of the truck, their footsteps coming closer. Suddenly there was a loud meow, close to where they were standing, and I smiled. Sinder to the rescue. She was a gray, short-haired cat,

who was as much a part of the circle of witches as I was. She kept them busy and distracted for another minute, weaving through their legs and meowing in a way that I'd almost never heard her do before. Transmogryification ain't easy. Let me tell you. And my arms were getting heavy and tired. But I could feel it working. The glass was coming. back together. The pumpkin caught inside. Just as my hands were going numb, I felt the last jar reseal. I used one last bit of strength to check that there wasn't a single glass shard left in the vegetables. And when I could tell, it had all gone back to where it was before. I pulled my hand. I pulled my hand. off the side panel and shuffled back into a shadowy doorway. Cinder stopped her look at me routine, and without a glance back, strolled away on her light kitty feet.

I saw the baker and the driver finally coming around to the back door where the splash of pumpkin juice had thankfully disappeared. The driver reached for the latch, slid it back, and turning his pinched face away, pushed the roll door up and open. I'd been hunched with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. But I stood up taller, hoping to gauge how well my casting had gone by reading the look on the baker's face. She tilted her head like a dog, trying to pick out a far-off sound, and then reached into the truck and lifted out one of the cases. She set it down on the pavement, and the driver reached down to grab one of the jars. She caught his hand before he could touch them, though, and I could see why.

There was a faint miasma of heat shimmer rising from them, and I stifled a laugh hidden in my doorway. The glass was still hot, while the two of them pulled crate after crate of whole bottles from the truck. exclaiming about how they couldn't find a single broken one. I lifted my palm to my mouth and blew across it in their direction, asking my breath to cool the quart jars down, at least enough to not burn their fingertips. After a few more minutes of confused murmuring

and head-scratching. They began to carry the crates in through the back door of the bakery when I'd caught my breath and was just about to sneak out of my hiding spot to ski-dattle down the alley. The driver came out and climbed back into his truck.

I waited for the truck to go and watched it turn at the corner. When I stepped out of the doorway, I saw the baker standing in hers, watching me. We blinked at each other for a few moments. And then she slowly closed the distance between us. She held one of the newly reformed jars in her hands. You're the potter. Who makes those coffee mugs they sell at the gift shop down the street, aren't you?

She knew I was. I'd even seen a few of my mugs in the hands of customers at her bakery and always appreciated that she used products made by local makers. I nodded, concerned with where this conversation was going. We recycle these quart jars every year, save them when the pumpkin is used up, and then can the next batch in them. So I know them pretty well. She handed me one of the warm jars, and I looked down at it. And their bottoms are blank.

I swallowed and turned the one in my hands over. The maker's mark you put on the bottom of your pieces? That's it. She tapped her fingernail over the familiar shape. It certainly was. I tried to tamp down my smile. I hadn't intended to leave a calling card on these, but apparently it had found. It had found. found a way to bleed through. I wasn't sure how much I should share with her. But when I looked up, she had a twinkle in her eye. I handed her back the jar and let out a deep sigh and said, it's a sigil, actually. That afternoon had ended with me and her talking. over a cup of tea and a slice of apple spice cake in her office. She didn't ask a lot of questions.

I got the feeling. She wasn't sure how much she wanted to know either. But since then, a friendship had grown. She knew that there were a few of us, that we tried our best to be helpful to the village, like I had that day with the pumpkin delivery, and that we too had a spot in downtown, just not one most people knew about.

Since then, she'd become a sort of ambassador between the villagers and our circle of witches. not that the villagers knew it. She would keep an ear and an eye out for projects we might want to help with. And when we could, we did. Our ways are small. We can't and don't interfere in the lives of our neighbors.

It's more that we massage the source. circumstances around them. Their gardens grow hardier. Their eyeglasses smudge less. Candles shine brighter. Grocery bags don't break. Sox come out of the dryer in matched pairs, and their histories aren't lost and forgotten while we are on duty.

And all of that, the day of the smashed mason jars, the sigil that had slipped through my spell, in the year of softened circumstances we'd worked on together. It's what led to me standing in the bakery, late at night, with a basket full of cookie cutters and a plan. I set the basket down on one of the clean work surface, and spread the cutters out beside it.

Metallurgy was new to me, but after working with glass that day, I'd been inspired to dip a wand in new materials. These were made from copper, though I had considered enchanting my 3D printer. I am a modern witch, after all. but the copper had such a lovely warm glow to it, a little orangy like a jackal lantern or a flickering fire,

and that felt more fitting for the job. Copper is a softer metal, and in my magical hands, I'd been able to not just shape it, into moons and stars without seams or solder. I'd also managed to imprint a spell that would affect each piece of cookie dough. They cut out.

The baker examined the cutters as I explained. There were small and large stars and one of each phase of the moon. So we're making magic cookies. cookies? She put one hand on her hip. Like now she'd heard it all. It made me chuckle, as I'd been trying to be a bit more poetic about it, but in the end, she'd nailed it in five words. Um, yes, what will they do? like multiply when you're extra hungry or change flavors depending on what you're craving? Hmm.

Both good ideas, I affirmed, thinking I should be taking some notes for next Halloween. They actually, they give you sweet dreams. Anyone who eats one will get a good night's sleep and have their favorite kind of dream. Her mouth dropped open, and she was truly speechless for a moment. Then she shook her head and set the cutter back down on the board, saying, And I thought my Viennese whorls were impressive. They are, I assured her. as I tied a clean apron around my waist, we began to measure and mix.

And she told me she loved dreams in which she was flying, but hadn't had one and longer than she could remember. You can have one tonight, I promised. She rolled the dough, and I used my cutters to stamp out moons and stars. When they were baking in the oven, we beat fluffy icing to pipe on top, colored blue and purple, and the antique white of the moon. The kitchen was full of lovely scents. The sweet sugar cookies. The fancy vanilla paste, the baker insisted on using. And under it, the faint smell of the breadloves that had been baked and sold earlier in the day. When we were done, we packed them into several large boxes and tied them with the bakery's signature red and white striped string.

The cookies were headed for the dessert table at the All Hallows party at the inn, and I'd printed out little signs and tags, doing my best to convey their intended use. I wasn't sure my fellow villagers would believe that a cookie could give them a night of sweet dreams. But I imagined they wouldn't doubt it the next morning when they were smiling over their coffee, thinking about the lakes they'd soared over,

the childhood dogs they'd played with, the light-hearted adventures they'd partaken in overnight. I'd been sure to set aside a half-dozen cookies for the baker, but warned her not to eat more than one per bedtime. The spell gets cancelled out of the baker, otherwise. I'd written that into my casting in case someone stumbled upon them and ate a handful before reading the tag. I wasn't sure otherwise what might happen. An overload of good dreams? A sleep so deep you snoozed through the whole weekend. Better safe than sorry, I thought.

When we'd loaded the boxes into the back of my car, pulled into the same alley, where we'd become friends the year before, we stood a moment, hugging ourselves in the chilly October air. Dry leaves blew through the alley, and stars winked in the deep navy sky. I wondered, if I ate one of my cookies tonight, What would I dream of? I couldn't imagine much better than moments like these.

The moon and the maker's mark. I knocked on the back door of the bakery and looked up and down the alley to see if anyone was out this late. But it was as quiet. as the grave. At the corner, a street lamp guttered for a moment, and in a dimly lit window, high up, three buildings over. A shadow moved behind a curtain. Otherwise, not a soul stirred. Well, not that I could tell anyway. Souls aren't my specialty, you see. Each of us, in the circle of witches, here in the village,

had a bit of extra talent in some particular branch of magic, and mine wasn't in peering through the veil. Mine was something much more tangible and, dare I say, delightful. That was why I was standing in the alley behind the bakery, late at night, with a basket full of handmade cookie cutters. Just as I raised my hand to knock again, I heard the lock turn, and the door opened. The baker stepped back to let me in and locked the door behind us again. What's this about?

She whispered. Though we were alone now in the bakery, I'd called her the day before, asking for a favor. asking her to meet me here after the village had gone to sleep and not to tell anyone. She'd agreed, but I'd heard in her voice, equal parts, hesitation, and excitement. There were only a few villagers who knew about us. knew about the Curios shop and our magical community-minded members, but she was one of them. It had happened the autumn before. I'd been in line at the bakery counter, breathing in the sense

of apple turnovers and cinnamon raisin bread. when a red-faced delivery driver had shuffled up to her and said, he'd taken the turn too hard coming through the alley and heard a terrible crash from the back of his truck. He'd been bringing cases of home-canned pumpkin for the Thanksgiving pies. boxes and boxes of tall glass mason jars. And from the sound he'd heard, he'd been too afraid to look, but guessed that there couldn't be more than a few left unbroken. The baker had immediately put a hand on his arm.

and reassured him that he shouldn't worry. That accidents happen and that she would go out, and they could look together and figure out the next step from there. Her kindness was so instant, like it had been right there, in the front pocket of her apron. And she could easily hand it over to anyone who needed it.

And I knew I wanted to help. It wouldn't be easy. I had done harder things before. I swept my hair up into a clip so I could think better and pushed the sleeves of my sweater up my arms. I snuck out the front door of the bakery and rushed down the side street to the alley.

They were just stepping out of the back door as I crept around the far side of the delivery truck. Even with the back, roll-up door, shut. I could see some orangish liquid dripping from the bumper, which confirmed the driver's dread. I worked often with clay,

and even stone. I had a way of nudging natural materials into shape, but usually that magic happened on my pottery wheel. And this was much more complex. I needed to convince the broken glass, persuade it to come back together

around all of that cooked pumpkin. Luckily, I'm not an overthinker. I just planted my feet and pressed my palms to the side of the truck. I thought about grains of silica sand and quartz. I thought of the soda ash added to the mix to lower the melting point and ovens hot enough to break down the crystal structures

till their atoms lost their fixed positions. I focused all of those thoughts on the contents of the truck and took quick breaths as if my lungs were a set of bellows that could pump oxygen into the heart of the fire. I could hear the baker and the driver talking on the other side of the truck.

Their footsteps coming closer. Suddenly, there was a loud meow close to where they were standing. And I smiled. Cinder to the rescue. She was a gray, short-haired cat. who was as much a part of the circle of witches as I was. She kept them busy and distracted for another minute, weaving through their legs and meowing in a way that I'd almost never heard her do before.

Transmogryification, ain't easy. Let me tell you. And my arms were getting heavy and tired. But I could feel it working. The glass was coming back together. The pumpkin caught inside. Just as my hands were going numb, I felt the last jar.

reseal. I used one last bit of strength to check that there wasn't a single glass shard left in the vegetables. And when I could tell, it had all gone back to where it was before. I pulled my hands off the side panel and shuffled back. and shuffled back into a shadowy doorway. Cinder instantly stopped her, look at me, routine, and without a glance, strolled away on her light kitty feet. I saw the baker and the driver finally come around to the back door

where the splash of pumpkin juice had thankfully disappeared. The driver reached for the latch, slid it back, and turning his pinched face away, pushed the roll door up and open. I'd been hunched with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. But I stood up taller, hoping to gauge. how well my casting had gone by reading the look on the baker's face. She tilted her head like a dog, trying to pick out a far-off sound, and then reached into the truck and lifted out one of the cases.

She set it down on the pavement, and the driver reached down. to grab one of the jars. She caught his hand before he could touch them, though, and I could see why. There was a faint miasma of heat shimmer, rising from them, and I stifled a laugh hidden in my doorway. The glass was still hot,

while the two of them pulled crate after crate of whole bottles from the truck, exclaiming about how they couldn't find a single broken one. I lifted my palm to my mouth and blew across it in their direction, asking my breath to cool the quart jars down at least enough to not burn their fingertips. After a few more minutes of confused murmuring and head-scratching, they began to carry the crates in through the back door, of the bakery.

When I'd caught my breath and was just about to sneak out of my hiding spot to ski-dattle down the alley. The driver came out and climbed back into his truck. I waited for the truck to go and watched it turn at the corner

when I stepped out of the doorway, I saw the baker standing in hers, watching me. We blinked at each other for a few moments, and then she closed the distance between us. She held one of the newly reformed jars in her hands. You're the potter who makes those coffee mugs. They sell at the gift shop down the street. Aren't you? She knew I was. I'd even seen a few of my mugs in the hands of customers at her bakery

and always appreciated that she used products made by local makers. I nodded, concerned with where this conversation was going. We recycle these quart jars

every year, save them when the pumpkin is used up and then can the next batch in them. So I know them pretty well. She handed me one of the warm jars, and I looked down at it, and their bottoms are blank. I swallowed and

turned the one in my hands over, the maker's mark you put on the bottom of your pieces. That's it. She tapped her fingernail over the familiar shape. It certainly, certainly, was. I tried to tamp down my smile. I hadn't intended to leave a calling card on these, but apparently it had found a way to bleed through. I wasn't sure how much I should share with her, but when I looked up, She had a twinkle in her eye, the hand at her back of the jar, and let out a deep sigh and said, It's a sigil, actually. That afternoon had ended with me and her talking over a cup of tea and a slice of apple spice cake in her office. She didn't ask a lot of questions.

I got the feeling. She wasn't sure how much she wanted to know either. But since then, a friendship had grown. She knew that there were a few of us, that we tried our best to be helpful in the village, like I had been that day, with the pumpkin delivery, and that we too had a spot in downtown.

Just not one most people knew about. Since then, she'd become a sort of ambassador between the villagers and our circle of witches. Not that the villagers knew it, She would keep an ear and an eye out for projects we might want to help with. And when we could, we did.

Our ways are small. We can't and don't interfere in the lives of our neighbors. It's more that we massage the circumstances around them. Their gardens grow hardier. Their eyeglasses smudge less. Candles shine brighter. Grocery bags don't break. Socks come out of the dryer in matched pairs.

And their histories aren't lost. were forgotten while we are on duty. And all of that, the day of the smashed mason jars, the sigil that had slipped through my spell, and the year of softened circumstances we'd worked on together. It's what led to me, standing in the bakery, late at night, with a bassist. With a bassist. A basketful of cookie cutters and a plan. I set the basket down on one of the clean work surfaces and spread the cutters out beside it. Metallurgy was new to me,

but after working with glass that day, I'd been inspired to dip a wand in new materials. These were made from copper, though I had considered enchanting my 3D printer. I am a modern witch, after all. But the copper had such a lovely warm glow to it, a little orangy like a jackal lantern, or a flickering fire. and that felt more fitting to the job.

Copper is a softer metal, and in my magical hands, I'd been able to not just shape it into moons and stars without seams or solder. I'd also manage to imprint a spell that would affect each piece of cookie dough they cut out. The baker examined the cutters as I explained this. There were some small and large stars

and one of each phase of the moon. So we're making, magic cookies? She put one hand on her hip, like now she'd hurt it all. It made me chuckle, as I'd been trying to be a bit more poetic about it,

but in the end, she'd nailed it in five words. Um, yes. What was, will they do? Like, multiply when you're hungry? Or change flavors, depending on what you're craving? Those are both good ideas, I affirmed, thinking I should be taking notes for next Halloween. They, actually, they give you sweet dreams. Anyone who eats one will get a good night's sleep and have their favorite kind of dream. Her mouth dropped open and she was truly speechless for a moment.

then she shook her head and set the cutter back down on the board, saying, and I thought my Viennese whirls were impressive. They are, I assured her, as I tied a clean apron around my waist. We began to measure and mix, and she told me she loved dreams, in which she was flying, but hadn't had one in longer than she could remember. You can have one tonight, I promised. She rolled the dough, and I used my cutters

to stamp out moons and stars. When they were baking in the oven, we beat fluffy icing to pipe on top, colored blue and purple. And the antique white of the moon. The kitchen was full of lovely scents. The sweet sugar cookies. The fancy vanilla paste.

Baker insisted on using. And under it, the faint smell of the breadloves that had been baked and so sold earlier in the day. When we were done, we packed them into several large boxes and tied them with the bakery's signature red and white striped string. The cookies were headed for the dessert table at the All Hallows party at the inn. And I printed out little signs and tags, doing my best to convey their intended use. I wasn't sure that my fellow villagers

would believe that a cookie could give them a night of sweet dreams. But I imagined they wouldn't doubt it the next morning when they were smiling over their coffee. thinking about the lakes they'd soared over, the childhood dogs they'd played with, the light-hearted adventures. They'd partaken in overnight. I'd been sure to set aside a half-dozen cookies for the baker,

but warned her not to eat more than one per bedtime. The spell gets cancelled out otherwise. I'd written that into my casting in case someone stumbled upon them and ate a handful before reading the tag. I wasn't sure otherwise what might happen. An overload of good dreams, asleep, so deep you snoozed through the whole weekend.

Better safe than sorry, I thought. When we'd loaded the boxes into the back of my car, pulled into the same alley where we'd become friends the year before, we stood a moment, hugging ourselves in the chilly, October air, dry leaves blew through the alley, and stars winked in the deep navy sky. I wondered, if I ate one of my cookies tonight, what would I dream of? I couldn't imagine.

Much better than moments like these. Sweet dreams.