The Glade smells like wet leaves and second chances. Rain has just passed, leaving pearls of water clinging to every petal. I breathe and feel the quiet stretch wider than before. Gratitude fits perfectly inside that space.

I tilt my horn and catch a droplet. It splits into rainbow threads, faint but faithful. I string them between branches—color for the sake of remembering joy.

The others might wait for the next sunrise, but I already see the light working early. The storm did not steal the sky; it just cleaned it. That realization feels like tea warming my insides.

By the time the breeze returns, my web of droplets hums with reflection. I whisper thanks to both rain and sun. Without either, the Glade wouldn’t shine half as kind.

The Peaks are colder now. Breath shows itself, honest and soft. I like that. It feels like the mountain saying thank you every time I exhale.

I walk at dawn when frost still holds the world together. My footprints vanish before I can look back. Maybe that’s the mountain’s way of keeping secrets safe. I carry a small lantern unlit; its silence reminds me that waiting is also a form of gratitude.

Down below, color still lingers—reds, oranges, echoes of warmth—but up here, white has its own shades. Every one of them feels like peace. I stop by a ledge that remembers summer. I place my mitt‑sized hand on the stone, whispering thanks for what it held: sun, birds, laughter I was too shy to join.

When the first snowflake lands on my fur, I let it melt instead of brushing it away. The drop it leaves is colder than thought, but softer than sadness. I smile. Quiet thanks doesn’t need words. Just breath that turns to cloud and disappears kindly.

The Forest smells like soup right now. Everyone’s cooking something. The chipmunks brought seeds roasted on hot stones; the owls contributed silence (goes with everything). I carved a table out of fallen logs, wide enough for whoever wandered by. Turns out “whoever” is quite a crowd.

We shared what we had—bark bread, berry stew, a few questionable mushrooms that might have been jokes. Between bites, I realized the trees were humming. Maybe from the steam. Maybe from thanks.

I stood up and raised my mug. “To the roots,” I said. “They hold us even when we forget where we stand.” The pines rustled approval. Gratitude echoed in every crunch and giggle. Nights like this feed more than bellies—they remind the Forest it’s already full.

The stones are listening. I can tell by how the candles—unlit—stand a little taller when I pass. Not yet, velitas, not yet. First, the camino. I pinch marigold petals and let them fall in bright rivers that show our loved ones the way. Gate to heart. Heart to gate. Bridges made of color.

I smooth flat river rocks and practice small calavera smiles: a swirl of fuchsia on one cheek, a teardrop of teal on the other, a golden flower at the brow. Names will come later, cuando llegue la noche, when memory feels warm enough to speak out loud. For now, I hum the rhythm so my hands don’t forget.

I stir a pot of sweet fruit with a cinnamon stick and promise the wind a taste if it carries the music kindly. Deal struck. Even the bones in the ground seem to sway when the melody finds its feet. Día de los Muertos isn’t about fright; it’s about abrazo—telling the stories so clearly that joy can dance with grief without stepping on toes.

Soon I’ll light the candles. Soon the petals will glow like sunrise fallen to earth. But this is the before, and the before matters. I check wicks, straighten ribbons, whisper gracias to the names I know by heart. The moon peeks over the wall and nods. “Pronto,” she says. I nod back. “Pronto.”

I’m practicing my best “boo!” but the Shadows keep shushing me. “Too early,” they whisper, tugging curtains across the hall. Fine. I can wait. Mostly.

I set the scene anyway: a mirror that likes drama, a broom that squeaks on cue, and three dust bunnies in tiny capes. I line moonbeams on the floor like stepping-stones and tell them, “When I clap, jump!” They shimmer. Showoffs.

Countdown time. Ten… nine… oops, lost count because a beam tried to tickle my nose. I add a rule: no tickling the host. The broom nods (rude but fair). I tuck spare giggles under the stairs in case anyone forgets to laugh.

When the night finally strolls in with its big grin, I’m ready—eyes wide, grin bright. I don’t bite. I delight. The Shadows roll their eyes but smile anyway. That’s a win.

The Lake practiced being still tonight. I floated just under the surface, listening to the tiny sounds water makes when it thinks. The mist arrived early and laid a soft veil over everything.

I waited for the moon. She can be shy. When she peeked out, her light drew silver rings around my tail. I swam through them like hoops and laughed bubbles that tickled my nose.

There was no crowd—just reeds, stars, and the patient shore. That felt right. Some nights are for quiet promises you keep to yourself.

Before I dove, I waved my tail at the moon’s reflection. It waved back, wobbly and kind. Ceremony complete.

The Peaks sleep under soft blankets tonight. Snow piles up on lanterns that forgot to go out, turning their glow into halos. I kneel beside one and blow gently. The frost dances off like tiny ghosts on break.

I love how light behaves up here. It doesn’t brag—it waits. Even the stars blink slow, taking turns so nobody feels left out. The cold hums through my coat, reminding me that silence can be cozy when it’s full of small sparks.

I scoop a handful of snow, press it into a ball, and place it beside the lantern. A little gift. Maybe the wind will roll it away and start a story somewhere else.

When morning comes, the Peaks will shine again. For now, I let the lantern sleep. Not every glow has to prove itself tonight.

The Dunes like to whisper secrets through every grain. I brewed my evening tea and told them a riddle: “What shines brightest when nobody looks?” They rustled for a bit before answering—kindness. Clever bunch.

The steam smelled of cinnamon and moonlight. It curled into shapes that tried to act wise but couldn’t stop giggling. I poured three cups: one for me, one for the wind, and one for the traveler who doesn’t know they’re lost yet. The desert always shares eventually.

When I laughed, the sand laughed too, tiny avalanches clapping in rhythm. Even the stars leaned closer to listen. “Good show,” they twinkled. The dunes took a bow. I think they enjoy my company more than they admit.

I packed the kettle, left the cups, and walked until the laughter turned to hush. The desert keeps secrets well—but laughter always finds a way to echo back.

The Forest woke up stiff, like it slept funny on its roots. I brought a basket of stubby gourds and a pocket full of dry needles for easy starts. Not for a big show—just to warm up the paths critters actually use.

I set lanterns near the fern hollow, the secret-keeping stump, and the joke-telling brook. The squirrels inspected my work with serious faces. Tough crowd. Then they approved with tail flicks. I’ll take it.

I hummed a low tune that sounded like the ground clearing its throat. Sunbeams finally squeezed through the branches and made polite puddles of gold. “There you are,” I said. “Don’t be strangers.”

By the time the breeze found us, the understory felt awake and friendly. That’s all I wanted—light that says, “Welcome.”

The Ruins glitter in that special hour when the sun bows to the moon. Light slides across the stones like silk ribbons, and even the dust looks fancy. I perch on a broken wall, tail swishing, watching the day pack up its glow.

Everyone loves the moon, but I think the sun deserves a good send-off. It worked all day, poor dear. So I raise my mirror shard and catch the last beam just right. It bounces around the pillars, golden and dramatic. Perfect exit.

The first stars peek out, giggling behind clouds. I wink back. The Ruins smell like warm stone and sleepy stories. I stretch, yawn, and promise to greet the moon properly next time. Balance, after all, takes practice—even for queens.

When night settles, the ribbons fade, but the glow stays tucked under my fur. The Ruins may rest, but I’ll keep the sparkle safe until dawn.