The Hollow isn’t empty; it just talks in whispers. Frost glitters on the stones like breadcrumbs for anyone brave enough to follow. I pull my scarf tight and start walking. Each step puffs out a tiny cloud that vanishes before I can name it.

Under one stone, a match waits. I strike it and cup my hands around the spark. The flame shivers, then stands tall—small, yes, but stubborn. I nod. “Me too.”

The path curves between icy trees that hum when the wind sneaks through their ribs. I light another match, then another, leaving little pools of gold behind me. They’re not much, but together they draw a line of warmth through the cold.

When I reach the clearing, dawn is already brushing color on the snow. I look back. The matches glow like tiny suns, marking where I’ve been and where I’ll go next.

The Trench hums again, low and steady like a heartbeat that forgot to rush. I drift above the glowing vents, feeling the warmth on my tentacles. Tiny fish blink in code, telling jokes too short to understand. Still, I laugh. It helps the water feel lighter.

I let the current push me in a slow circle. The hum grows louder, wrapping around me like a song only the sea remembers. Up above, the world breaks waves and shouts about storms. Down here, everything listens first.

A whale passes, humming its own verse. We overlap for a moment—me, the song, and the whale. The sound fills the dark until it feels like dawn might live here too.

When the rhythm fades, I stay still, quiet but not alone. The deep never sleeps; it just keeps time.

The Desert buzzes like it’s holding its breath. Perfect running weather. I’ve been tying little glow gourds to the tops of dunes—boop, boop, boop—so I can race them later. They don’t know it yet, but they’re going to lose.

I test one. It hangs there, cool and bright, like a tiny moon that owes me a favor. The wind kicks sand at my ankles. I grin back. “Save it for the race,” I say, but my paws already itch to go.

I patch a strap, chew a twig that tastes like cinnamon, and stretch until the stars blink awake. Waiting isn’t my thing, but this kind of waiting has speed inside it—like a drum roll that lasts all evening.

When the night finally shouts “Now!”, I’ll dash gourd to gourd, leaving a comet trail of sand. The dunes will pretend not to watch. They always watch.

Fog writes soft lines across the Marsh. I press shallow trays in the mud, one after another, like quiet footprints that know where they’re going. No candles yet. The waiting is part of the glow.

I set a pebble in each tray so they won’t tip when the ripples arrive. The reeds lean over to look. “Soon,” I tell them. They rustle like pages turning.

I imagine the first match: a hush, then a tiny yes. Owls blink like punctuation in the trees—little blinks for little thoughts. The mist curls around my wings and makes everything feel close.

When the night is ready, I’ll light the nearest tray and watch the small light teach the fog to shine. For now, I let the anticipation settle.

I chose a high ledge where the wind speaks plainly. No beacon tonight—just stones, dry tinder, and a promise I made to the Peaks. Readiness is its own kind of light.

Clouds gathered and tried their tricks, pushing and tugging at my feathers. I adjusted my stance, breathed, and let the gust pass through me. Courage isn’t noise. It’s the steady part that stays when the noise leaves.

I walked the ridge, eyes on the passes and the long road below. No danger, only distance. That’s when the work feels biggest: when you stand guard and nothing happens because you stood guard.

Dawn touched the cliff and turned one feather edge to gold. Not a blaze—just proof. Oath kept. Heights safe. On we go.

Night stretched soft over the Glade, dotted with fireflies pretending to be stars. I followed their glow until I found a dew string linking two flowers. One drop trembled, catching starlight and holding it like a secret. I smiled—every connection starts small.

I brushed the petals with my hoof and the drop fell, landing on another leaf. Now there were two lights. The web grew, invisible but strong, like laughter passed along a line of friends. I whispered, “Keep going,” and it did.

The crickets tuned their wings and joined in, humming beneath the shimmer. The Glade breathed slow, proud of its own sparkle. I thought about how even the quietest shine can find another to match it.

When the breeze rose, the lights drifted skyward. I waved after them, certain they’d remember the way back down.

The Dunes love a secret. They hide them in every ripple of sand, just waiting for someone curious enough to listen. I set my kettle on a patch of warm stone and let the fire hum its tune. The air smells like cinnamon and stories that forgot their endings.

I toss in a pinch of starlight—borrowed, not stolen—and stir with a wooden spoon that always tells the truth. “All right,” I say, “who wants to play a riddle?” The wind swirls like it’s thinking. Good start.

Here it is: “What wears many masks but keeps one face?” The dunes hush, then slide softly while they guess. One pile shivers. Another sighs. Finally, the sand settles into a smile. “Laughter,” I say. “Even the wind gets that one.”

I pour the tea and leave a cup on a rock for a traveler who doesn’t know they’re thirsty yet. The desert always finds a way to share. When the steam rises, it carries the sound of the dunes giggling behind me. That’s my favorite kind of thank-you.

I checked the roots today, just to make sure nobody was racing. The Forest doesn’t hurry, and neither should I. Moss takes its time, wrapping around rocks like a cozy scarf. Even the creek hums a slow tune, never missing a beat.

Sometimes I think the world forgets how nice “slow” feels. Everyone wants to see the next tree bloom before the first one’s done yawning. But me? I like the in-between. The stretch, the sigh, the quiet work of growing.

I sat with an old oak that remembers when I was knee-high and clumsy. Its bark still fits my back like it was carved just for me. We didn’t say much—just breathed together until the sun slipped lower and the forest started glowing gold.

Roots don’t rush. They hold. And that’s enough.

The Lake likes to keep its secrets under glass. When I swim through, the water folds around me like a friendly blanket, cool and quiet. Every ripple carries a memory—some mine, some borrowed from the moon. I don’t rush them; stories need time to float up.

This morning I saw my reflection stretch into a thousand little waves. Each one smiled a bit different. That’s how the lake reminds me we can change and still be ourselves. I dipped my tail and watched the rings widen until they met the reeds.

A frog sang somewhere close by, off-key but proud. I hummed along. The sound tickled through the surface and made the fish curious. They don’t talk much, but they always listen.

When the sun slid higher, the ripples calmed. The lake smoothed itself like brushed silk. I took one last look before diving down again. Still waters remember everything—they just keep it gentle.

Up here, the world feels wrapped in hush. The Peaks don’t talk much, and that’s fine by me. I like how the wind sighs between cliffs, how snow drifts without needing applause. When I breathe out, my voice becomes a puff of white that floats away and disappears into the sky.

Today I built a seat of snow and watched the sun rise slow, like it was shy. The light touched each mountain tip one by one—no rush, no fuss, just gentle hello’s. Sometimes the clouds drop low enough to shake hands with me. They’re cooler than they look.

I listened long enough to hear tiny cracks in the ice below. That’s the Peaks whispering back. They don’t use words, just creaks and sighs that mean “we’re awake.”

When I stand to leave, the quiet follows me. It’s not heavy; it feels like a blanket that remembers my shape. Down there the world can be noisy. Up here, even silence feels friendly.