In a misty grove where the trees hummed softly, there lived a pastel creature named Thimble. She was pale mint and rose, round like a gumdrop, with tiny paws and gentle eyes. But what made her strange was the pine cone perched on her head—large, mossy, and ancient.
Thimble didn’t speak much. That was the pine cone’s job.
It tugged gently at her thoughts, nudging her to places she’d never think to go: to hidden springs, to lonely creatures, to old roots that needed remembering. Thimble never questioned it. The pine cone was wise.
One day, it led her to a stump where nothing had grown in years. She sat quietly. Waited.
And from under her, a single green sprout pushed through—guided, like her, by something older than words.