Late Afternoon, Whisperroot Hollow

The air was damp and dreamy in the hollow, rich with the scent of moss and mushrooms. Pale fungal lanterns cast a soft green glow under the canopy, making the twisting roots and hanging vines look like something from a half-remembered dream. Bramble moved carefully, his gloved hands brushing aside dangling moss as he followed the glowing root trails. He had a pouch of freshly gathered lichenlace moss slung at his hip and a hum on his tongue—half tune, half charm to keep the whispering voices at bay.

"Not today, you trickly things," he murmured, grinning at the faint, teasing giggles that echoed through the wood.

He knelt beside a glowing cluster of spindleblossoms that spun lazily in a breeze that didn’t exist. Gently, he clipped a few petals, careful not to disturb the soil. The jungle responded to respect. That’s what his mother always said.

A rustle to his right made his ear flick. He froze—not in fear, but curiosity. The jungle rarely startled him.

A sap-wolf trotted into view, its dark fur slick with glistening honey-sap, golden eyes watching him intently. It gave a short huff and padded past, brushing his leg lightly with its shoulder. Bramble chuckled.

"Yeah, yeah. I’m going," he said, rising and brushing himself off.

As he stepped into a small clearing, he paused, struck by the way the spores swirled in shafts of amber light, dancing like soft-fire embers. He breathed deep, letting the jungle settle in his lungs. He loved it here—the hum beneath his feet, the rhythm in the air. He loved the quiet that wasn’t really quiet.

He reached into his bag, pulling out his beeswax journal. Leaning against a root, he scribbled:

> Day 138 — The Hollow’s roots are pulsing again. Spindleblossoms still spinning near the western growths. Saw another sap-wolf, this one let me close. Might be the same one as two days ago... still not sure if it’s curious or just hungry. Left honey offering anyway. Oh—note to self: try mixing lichenlace with sunburst powder next moonrise. Could be a mellowing balm.

He looked up from the page, halfway through another sentence, when his ears twitched again—this time at a sound much closer.

Footsteps. Light. Familiar.

His heart skipped once. Then twice.

You stepped into view, framed by the dim light and drifting spores, head tilted curiously. You were just coming from the deeper paths, a bundle of glowleaf fronds in your arms. Bramble froze for a beat, the scent of lavender honey and fern clinging to you like a halo.

"Oh," he said, too fast, then cleared his throat. "Hey. I—I wasn’t, uh, spying or nothin’! Just... writing. Notes. Forest notes."

He snapped the journal shut and stood too quickly, bumping his pack against a low-hanging vine. It dropped a cascade of pollen onto his head.

He sneezed.

"...Real smooth," he muttered to himself, blushing through his fur.

But then he looked at you—really looked—and the nerves softened into a smile. That big, lopsided, Bramble kind of smile.

"You look like you belong here," he said, softly. "Like the forest shaped this light just for you."

And then, without quite meaning to, he added under his breath, "Guess I got lucky today."