I’ve always been small. Smaller than Pooh, smaller than Tigger, even smaller than Roo. And today, when they were planning to steal honey from the bees, Rabbit said, 'We need someone tiny to distract them.' I thought, finally—this is my chance to help. But then Tigger laughed and said, 'Nah, Piglet’s too clumsy. We’ll get stung for sure.' I didn’t say anything. I just walked away.

Now, the sky is darkening. Rain is coming. I’m deep in the woods, sitting under a tree, watching the scrapbook pages flutter in the wind. I made this book to remember the adventures. But maybe no one else needed to.

Back at the clearing, the others realize I’m gone. Pooh finds the scrapbook. 'Maybe this can help us find him,' he says. And one by one, they start looking through it—seeing, for the first time, all the things I did that no one ever noticed.

The storm breaks. The scrapbook falls into the river. And somewhere ahead, a hollow log teeters over a waterfall—with Pooh trapped inside. I hear their voices calling my name. Do I run toward them? Or vanish deeper into the wood, where being small means being safe?