Down here, gratitude isn’t words—it’s a steady pulse. The Trench glows in tiny sparks—fish, vents, dreams—all sharing the same rhythm. I drift through them, counting heartbeats that don’t belong to me but somehow include me anyway.

I pass a coral archway and bow, just because. The sea bows back in bubbles. Fair trade.

Above, the surface churns with noise. Down here, we thank each other by moving together. Even the current remembers to loop back and touch every rock before it leaves.

When the hum quiets, I hover in the middle of it all and smile. The deep says thank you by keeping you close.

The Heights feel heavier now that winter waits below. Each breath works a bit harder, so each one matters. I stretch my wings and taste the cold air—it tastes like promise.

I patrol the ridge, claws clicking on rock, listening for trouble that never comes. Being ready is my way to say thanks. The Peaks trust me to keep them safe, and that trust warms more than any fire.

Down in the valley, lanterns flicker like little stars that forgot to rise. I guard them from afar, a quiet flame keeping watch over smaller ones.

Gratitude isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s the steady feeling that you did your job—and even the wind knows it.

I swam beneath a carpet of drifting gold. Leaves spun slow, soft, deliberate—each surrendering to the water with grace. I tried to catch one but missed on purpose. Gratitude feels better when it moves freely.

The Lake keeps everything, but gently. It tucks memories under ripples until they sparkle instead of sink. I thanked the surface for its honesty—how it shows the sky’s face and still keeps its own.

When evening cooled the shore, I surfaced and watched mist rise in thin curls. They looked like sighs too shy to be heard. I whispered mine anyway: a thank‑you to the season for teaching patience through change.

The leaves will settle by morning. The Lake will keep them. I will keep the lesson.

The Ruins keep secrets, but I’m learning to leave my own. This morning I found a patch of sunlight caught in a jar shard. It winked at me, bold as a jewel. I tucked it into a crack in the wall—just a little gift for whoever finds it next.

After that, I dusted off an old statue until its smile came back. “You’re welcome,” I told it. Queens believe in good manners. The pigeons approved with applause that sounded like feathers clapping.

By midday, the stones glowed warm enough to nap on. I stretched, tail flicking, and thought about how light likes to travel but also loves to rest. We’re the same that way.

When the sun dipped low, I whispered, “Stay a while.” The shard caught one last sparkle before the shadows closed in. Real thanks doesn’t grab—it just holds on kindly.

The Graveyard is quiet again, but not empty. Wax pools around candle stubs, and the air smells like sugar and smoke. I tap my drum once—soft, slow—so the night knows I’m saying thanks.

The marigolds tilt toward the dawn, their petals sleepy from dancing all week. I whisper, “Rest, amigos. You earned it.” Their color lingers on my fingers like paint that refuses to fade.

I stack the dishes, fold the bright cloths, and laugh when the wind steals one ribbon just to play. Gratitude isn’t about endings; it’s about light that stays. Every glow that remains reminds us who we celebrated for—and why we’ll do it again.

I hum as I walk home, the last candle flickering behind me. Still burning, still thankful.

The first true snow fell last night. It muffled the Hollow until only heartbeats dared to make noise. I walked through the hush, careful not to break it. Gratitude feels fragile in cold air, but it’s tougher than it looks.

I touched a branch glazed in ice. It didn’t snap—it sang, a tiny crystal note. The sound surprised me into smiling. Even cold can be kind if you stop bracing against it.

I’m thankful for that lesson. For the wind that nudges but doesn’t bite. For the path that remembers my steps even when I try to tread lightly. For hunger that reminds me I’m still alive enough to feel.

When I reached the ridge, dawn spilled pale gold across the frost. I breathed it in. The Hollow stayed silent, but I swear it nodded. Gratitude doesn’t need words—it just needs warmth that knows how to wait.

The Marsh drifts in and out of fog, hiding its shine like a shy smile. I glide above the water and watch tiny ripples catch the sky. Gratitude murmurs between reeds, a sound softer than wings.

I light one lantern and let its glow rest on the surface. Circles widen, touching each other until the whole pool glimmers. The mist leans closer, curious. I tell it, “You can glow too.” It tries, and it does.

The frogs begin to sing—slow notes, kind notes. Even the quiet shadows sway to join in. Tonight the Marsh remembers what it means to shine together.

I hover until the last ripple fades, leaving warmth behind. That’s how I keep the light company.

The heat’s easing up, and that means I can race without boiling my paws. I dash across dunes that smell like baked thunder and grin at the wind until it grins back. Gratitude tastes like vanilla and a laugh that is too quick to swallow.

I’m thankful for every tumbleweed. For the cactus that offers shade but not hugs. For the stars that blink like they’re trying not to laugh. The Desert doesn’t say please or thank you—it just keeps you moving until you figure out both mean the same thing: keep going.

I pause at a ridge, panting, watching dust settle in slow applause. Somewhere behind me my footprints are already gone, erased by the world itself. I call that proof the moment was good enough to eat. Dinner served, compliments of the wind.

You ever hear laughter echo so long it forgets what joke started it? That’s my favorite kind. I’ve been sweeping the corners of the Shadows, collecting leftover giggles from Halloween. They stick to the dust like glitter. Best mess ever.

I dump them into a jar labeled “Blessings (Misc.).” Every time I shake it, it sparkles. Sometimes it cackles. Sometimes it hums. Gratitude’s weird that way—it sneaks up disguised as chaos and then pats you on the back for noticing.

I’m thankful for the little things: squeaky hinges that sing harmony, mirrors that still remember my face, and the way moonlight always finds time for an encore. Even fear has its polite side—it reminds us what courage feels like when it shows up late but still dressed nicely.

Tonight I’ll hide one jar of laughter under every stair and let the Shadows keep the rest. We all deserve souvenirs from joy. That’s my kind of thank‑you: messy, loud, and slightly haunted.

I found an old brass teapot buried halfway in sand, probably forgotten by a traveler who wished too quickly. I dusted it off, chuckled, and filled it with seed‑milk. Steam rose, smelling faintly of cardamom and stories I’ve already told twice. Perfect.

Each bubble that surfaced carried a small memory: a laugh returned, a kindness repaid, a favor I hadn’t realized I owed. I whispered thanks to each before it popped. Gratitude works best when brewed slowly.

As twilight painted the dunes in indigo and gold, I poured the first cup for the wind. It sipped noisily—good manners, for a breeze—and then drifted off to tell others. I poured one for myself and listened to the silence.

Tomorrow, the pot will cool, and I’ll bury it again halfway. Not to forget—but to remember later. Some wishes are worth reheating.