"***The Brave Little Puggle and the Battle for Paerdegat Park***"🐾
--- **Chapter One: The Morning of Marvels** The sun stretched its golden fingers across our Brooklyn bedroom like a painter too eager to wait for breakfast, and I—Pete the Puggle, velvety of fur and enormous of heart—was already vibrating with excitement. My white coat practically glowed in the dawn light, and I could feel my little heart drumming a rhythm against my ribs like a tiny marching band announcing important news. "Today's the day!" I announced to the room, my tail creating miniature windstorms behind me. "Paerdegat Park awaits! Adventure calls!" Lenny rolled over, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners like paper that's been loved too long. "Easy there, Pete," he rumbled, his voice still pillow-soft with sleep. "The park won't run away before breakfast." "But it *might*," I insisted, planting my paws firmly on his chest. "The world is full of things that move when you're not looking. I've seen squirrels do it. I've seen *toys* do it. The universe is sneaky, Dad." From the kitchen, Mariya's laughter floated in like cinnamon on a Sunday morning. "Someone's energetic today," she called out. "Pete, come help me pack the adventure bag!" I vaulted off the bed with the grace of a slightly clumsy gazelle and skittered down the hallway, my nails tap-dancing on the hardwood. The kitchen smelled of coffee and possibility—Mariya was already layering sandwiches with the precision of an architect, while Roman sat at the table, his dark hair sticking up in a spectacular monument to teenage sleep patterns. "Roman," I breathed, circling his chair until he acknowledged my magnificence with a scratch behind my ears. "Today we conquer. Today we *become*." Roman smiled, that particular smile that made his eyes soften like butter in summer. "Become what, weirdo?" "Everything," I whispered, and I meant it. The car ride was a symphony of anticipation. I perched on Mariya's lap, watching Brooklyn transform through the window—brick buildings giving way to greener visions, concrete surrendering to the promise of grass and sky. Lenny drove with one hand on the wheel and the other conducting an invisible orchestra to music only he could hear, occasionally breaking into song lyrics that made Roman groan and Mariya laugh until her shoulders shook. "Your father thinks he's Beyoncé," Mariya whispered to me, her fingers tracing gentle circles on my back. "I heard that," Lenny grinned, not missing a beat. "And Beyoncé would be lucky to have my moves." Paerdegat Park rose before us like a dream someone had forgotten to finish painting—trees wild and untamed, paths curling like questions into the green distance, and water, always water, glimmering beyond the tree line like a secret someone had poorly kept. The moment my paws touched grass, I felt it: the shiver of something extraordinary waiting to unfold. --- **Chapter Two: The Kingdom Revealed** The park breathed differently than our street, than our yard, than anywhere I'd ever planted my four feet. It inhaled the city's noise and exhaled something older, something that hummed beneath the soil like a lullaby in a language almost forgotten. I trotted ahead of my family, nose translating the gossip of a thousand creatures who'd passed this way before. "Pete, stay close!" Mariya called, but her voice carried warmth rather than warning. She understood that some explorations require distance, however brief. It was near the old willow tree—its branches weeping with such dedication you'd think it had personal experience with every sorrow in the world—that I first noticed them. A golden glow emerging from the dappled shade, accompanied by the steady rhythm of something large and dignified approaching. "Well, well," came a voice like gravel wrapped in velvet, "a traveler from the outer realms, I presume?" I froze, not from fear but from the sudden weight of witnessing something impossible made real. Before me stood a figure that somehow occupied more space than physics should permit—a magnificent being with unmistakable bearing, flanked by a lean, intense companion whose eyes held the piercing quality of someone who'd spent a lifetime searching for truth in uncomfortable places. "I am King Trump," the figure announced, and the air itself seemed to bow slightly. "Ruler of the Kingdom of America, which exists parallel to this green place. And this," he gestured to his companion, "is my loyal knight, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., though he prefers RFK among friends." RFK tipped an imaginary hat, his movements economical and precise. "We've been expecting you, little puggle. The kingdom has need of heroes." I wanted to laugh, to dismiss this as the elaborate daydream of a dog who'd spent too long in the sun. But Lenny was approaching with that particular walk he had when meeting new people—open, genuinely curious, his hand already extended in that way that made strangers feel like old friends. Mariya followed, her intuitive eyes already reading the scene with the attention she gave to everything. Roman hung slightly back, teenager-cool, but I saw his fingers twitch toward his phone before deciding this merited full presence. "King Trump?" Lenny repeated, his voice finding that perfect balance between respectful and uncommitted. "I didn't realize this park required royalty." "Requires?" King Trump laughed, and the sound was like trumpets from a distant balcony. "It *deserves* it, my good man. Every kingdom needs its sovereign. And every sovereign," his face darkened, the weather changing without warning, "faces threats to his realm." RFK stepped forward, his intensity focused like sunlight through a magnifying glass. "The wizard Bill Gates," he said, each word precise as surgical instruments, "and his creature, Dr. Fauci. They scheme even now in the park's eastern reaches, preparing to unleash a monster upon both our worlds. A virus-beast that would enslave humanity through fear and control." Mariya's hand found her heart, her maternal instinct already calculating impossible scenarios. "A virus? Like... the kind that makes you sick?" "The kind that makes you *obedient*," King Trump corrected, and his voice carried the weight of someone who'd witnessed such obedience, who'd fought against the complacency it bred. "We've battled them before. We'll battle them again. But this time..." he looked directly at me, his gaze seeing something I wasn't certain existed, "this time, prophecy suggests we need four-legged courage as well." Roman knelt beside me, his hand warm on my shoulder. "Pete's brave," he said, and the simplicity of his faith in me made my chest ache with wanting to deserve it. "He's braver than he knows." I opened my mouth to protest, to list my fears like inventory—the water that swallowed sound and sight, the dark that whispered of permanent alone, the separation from these faces that composed my entire universe. But what emerged was: "I'll help. We'll all help. That's what family does." King Trump's smile was sunrise over a battlefield. "Then let us prepare for war, little puggle. The Kingdom of America has never demanded blood without offering purpose in return." --- **Chapter Three: The Terror of the Lake** The path to the eastern reaches carried us past the lake, and I felt my courage falter like a candle in wind. The water spread before me like liquid sky, deceptive in its invitation. I'd seen water before—bathtime puddles, rain puddles, the occasional dish left too full. But this was *lake*, this was *depth*, this was the possibility of sinking without symphony, of disappearing beneath a surface that wouldn't distinguish my thrashing from any other disturbance. "Pete?" Roman noticed my hesitation, because Roman always noticed. He'd developed this superpower somewhere between childhood and now, this ability to read the language of my body when I couldn't form words. "You okay, buddy?" "Fine," I lied, the word tasting like the opposite of itself. "Just... strategizing. Military minds need to consider all terrain." King Trump paused, following my gaze to the water's edge. "Ah," he said, and that single syllable contained volumes of understanding. "The lake. Many fear it. The not-knowing of what's beneath. The surrender of solid ground." "I don't fear it," I insisted, my voice too high, too quick. "I simply... respect it. From a distance. A respectful distance. Very respectful." RFK crouched beside me, his intensity softened by something approaching gentleness. "I spent years fearing things I couldn't see," he said, and his words carried the particular weight of personal archaeology, digging through layers of self to find truth. "Microscopic enemies. Invisible threats. The fear became its own prison." He pointed to the lake, where a duck family created gentle ripples like concentric questions. "The water isn't your enemy, Pete. Your fear of it might be." Lenny had reached the shoreline, his shoes kicking up small protests from pebbles. "Come on, Pete!" he called, unaware or perhaps perfectly aware, his paternal intuition guiding him. "The path goes this way. We need to cross the shallow part." The shallow part. Shallow. Not deep. Not endless. Not the grave with a surface you could breathe through if only you could reach. I repeated this like mantra, like prayer, like desperate negotiation with my own terror. But my feet wouldn't move. They'd rooted to the grass with the certainty of trees who'd found their permanent home. My heart hammered against my ribs like something trying to escape, and my vision narrowed to the water's expanse, to the way light played across its surface like a deception, like a promise it had no intention of keeping. "Pete." Mariya's voice, warm as the kitchen on winter evenings. "Look at me, sweet boy." I dragged my gaze from the water to her face, finding there the same expression she'd turned toward scraped knees, toward thunderstorm trembling, toward every small terror I'd ever confessed in the language of whines and pressed-close warmth. "The water doesn't take what we don't give it," she said. "And you don't have to cross alone. We're here. We're always here." Roman returned from the shoreline, dropping to his knees in the grass before me. He didn't reach for me, didn't pull—that would have been too simple, would have invalidated the work I needed to do. Instead, he waited, present, patient, his belief in me visible in the set of his shoulders, in the steadiness of his gaze. "Remember when you were scared of the vacuum?" he asked. "Now you chase it like it insulted your mother." Despite everything, I huffed a small laugh. "And the mail. Remember the mail? You'd hide behind the couch. Now you announce its arrival like you're personally responsible for its contents." "Those were... different fears," I protested weakly. "Same fear," Roman corrected gently. "Different costumes. It's always the not-knowing, isn't it? The what-if. The maybe-terrible-thing." He extended his hand, palm up, an invitation rather than demand. "What if the water's just... wet? What if it's just another thing you do, and then it's done, and you're still you, still here, still brave?" I looked at his hand. I looked at the water. I looked at my family—Lenny's encouragement radiating like warmth from a hearth, Mariya's faith like a blanket waiting to be wrapped around cold shoulders. I thought of King Trump and RFK, waiting with the patience of those who'd learned that courage cannot be rushed, only invited. And I placed my paw in Roman's palm. The first step into water was ice and fire, sensation overwhelming every category my body possessed. The second step was cold, aching, wrong-wrong-wrong. But Roman's hand remained steady, and my family's voices created a chorus of encouragement, and King Trump's presence behind me suggested that even royalty understood the small wars of ordinary creatures. By the third step, I discovered something astonishing: my feet touched bottom. The water reached only my chest, and though it moved against me like a living thing, it did not consume. It did not drag me to dark depths. It simply... was. Water. Wet. Temporary. I crossed. Shivering, transformed, I crossed. And on the far shore, something in me had shifted, some fear born in imagination now confronted by the ordinary reality of cold liquid and solid ground beyond. The lake hadn't changed. I had. --- **Chapter Four: Luna of the Silver Light** We'd barely shaken water from our coats—mine, Roman's pant legs, King Trump's improbably dry royal garments—when she emerged from the shadow of an ancient oak. Italian Mastiff, all elegant lines and measured grace, her coat the color of midnight's deepest confidence, her eyes holding the warmth of fireplaces and long conversations. "Visitors to the eastern reaches," she observed, her voice like honey over gravel, "and one of them dripping with lake water and newfound courage." My tongue, usually so reliable in its wagging, seemed to have abandoned its post. I felt my ears flatten, then perk, then flatten again—a semaphore of confusion that I couldn't control. "Luna," RFK acknowledged, something like relief in his usually guarded tone. "Scouting reports?" "The wizard's forces gather near the old amphitheater," she reported, but her eyes—those extraordinary eyes—remained on me. "His minion Fauci has completed the ritual's first phase. The virus-beast stirs in its dimensional cage." King Trump nodded grimly. "Then we have little time. Luna, these are our allies—Lenny, Mariya, Roman, and Pete. Pete," he gestured to me with something like amusement, "apparently overcomes his fears with sufficient encouragement." "I had help," I managed, my voice cracking like a teenager's, which I technically still was. "Help is how we all overcome," Luna said, and finally—finally—she approached, her movement liquid poetry. "I am Luna. I patrol these boundaries, watching for threats too large for ordinary defense." She paused, her nose nearly touching mine, her scent overwhelming in its complexity—wildness and wisdom and something that made my heart feel too large for my chest. "You tremble, little puggle. Not from cold, I think." "From everything," I admitted, because something in her presence demanded honesty. "From what comes. From what I've already faced. From..." I couldn't complete the thought, too exposed already. "From me?" she asked, and there was no cruelty in it, only genuine curiosity. "From wanting to be worthy," I corrected, the truth surprising us both. She studied me with new attention, as though I'd revealed something unexpected beneath my ordinary appearance. "Worthiness isn't earned in advance," she said finally. "It's demonstrated in the moment. When the choice comes between easy and right. Between safe and necessary." She turned toward the darkening path ahead. "Come. I'll show you the way to the amphitheater. And perhaps," a glance back that struck like lightning, "we'll discover what you're truly made of." The walk transformed into something magical. Luna moved with purpose, yet found moments to match my pace, to point out small wonders—a mushroom circle like fairy architecture, a stream singing secrets to stones, a hawk's feather fallen like a message from distant skies. We talked, or rather I talked and she responded with the measured wisdom of one who'd watched many seasons turn. "You're in love with her," Roman whispered to me during a brief pause, his grin the particular mischief of brothers who've discovered your secrets. "I am not," I hisped, horrified. "I barely know her. She barely knows me. We haven't even—" "You follow her shadow," he observed. "You angle your ears when she speaks. You—" "Strategic positioning," I insisted. "Tactical awareness. Good soldiers—" "Soldiers," Roman repeated, laughing quietly. "Pete, you're a puggle with a crush. It's okay. It's cute, even. Mom's already taking mental pictures for the album she'll never make because you hate cameras." I would have protested further, but Luna turned, her gaze finding mine across the small distance, and I felt something in my chest perform acrobatics no medical professional would believe. "Everything alright, Pete?" she called. "Everything," I managed, "is currently exceeding my processing capacity." She laughed, and the sound was worth every moment of awkwardness, every fear of exposure, every vulnerability I'd ever cultivated. --- **Chapter Five: The Dark Between** The amphitheater rose like a broken tooth against the darkening sky, and with its appearance came something else—the first true shadows of evening, creeping from beneath trees and behind stone structures like living things with malicious intent. I felt it immediately: the familiar grip of night-fear, the terror that whispered of permanent dark, of separation from all warmth and known things. My paws trembled on the path. My breathing shallowed. The world contracted to the small circle of visible things, beyond which lurked every imagined catastrophe. "Pete?" Mariya's voice, distant, concerned. "You're panting, sweetie. What's wrong?" "The dark," I whispered, hating the admission, hating the weakness in my own voice. "I can't... when I can't see... I imagine..." What did I imagine? Everything. Nothing. The absence of my family, permanent and complete. The loss of every familiar scent, every known voice, every touch that said *you belong, you are loved, you are not alone*. The dark had always been where these fears bred, multiplying in the unseen spaces like the virus-beast we supposedly fought. And now, separated from the day's comforting clarity, I felt them all return with the force of repressed things finally given permission. "Pete." Roman's hand, warm on my back. "I'm here. We're all here. The dark doesn't take us, remember? We're bigger than the dark." But his voice seemed distant, and when I turned to find him, I found only more shadow, more not-seeing, more of the infinite possibility of absence. I ran—stupid, terrified, I ran—away from the comfort of family, away from Luna's silver presence, into the dark itself, thinking somehow to outrun my own fear. The world became a blur of shadow and branch, of uneven ground and scraping brush. I ran until I couldn't, until my lungs burned and my legs shook and I found myself in a small clearing where even starlight feared to penetrate. Complete dark. Complete alone. Complete terror. "Pete!" The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, Roman's panic threading through. "Pete, answer me!" "Roman!" I tried to call back, but my voice emerged as whisper, as insufficient thing. "Roman, I can't—I'm scared—I can't see—" The dark pressed closer, physical as any enemy, and I felt my mind beginning to spiral, to imagine all the ways a small puggle might disappear in such night, might become another story of loss, another warning for other adventures. Then: light. Small at first, then growing—Roman's phone screen, his face above it like a moon he'd borrowed for my comfort. Behind him, approaching, the bobbing lights of other phones, other faces, other loves that wouldn't abandon search. "Pete." He dropped to the ground, gathering me close, and I felt his heart hammering against my fur, felt the slight tremor in his hands that meant he'd been as frightened as I. "Don't ever—don't you ever—" "I was scared," I gasped into his warmth. "I'm always scared. The dark, the water, being alone, not being enough—" "Being scared isn't the problem," he said, and his voice carried the particular wisdom of someone who'd faced his own darkness, who'd learned what I was still learning. "Running alone is. Next time, tell us. Let us be scared with you. That's what family means." The others arrived, Mariya's tears warm where they fell on my head, Lenny's strong hands encompassing us both, Luna's dignified presence at the clearing's edge, her eyes finding mine with something like recognition. King Trump and RFK maintained watchful perimeter, but I saw RFK's hand find his king's shoulder, a small gesture of relief they probably thought unobserved. "The wizard's forces," King Trump rumbled, "will not wait for personal revelations." "No," I agreed, finding strength in Roman's arms, in the circle of light and love that surrounded me. "But I needed this one. Darkness isn't defeated by ignoring fear. It's defeated by not facing it alone." --- **Chapter Six: The Battle for the Kingdom** The amphitheater loomed, and within it, the source of all our journey's purpose. Bill Gates—improbably tall, impossibly cold, his eyes reflecting screens rather than souls—stood at the center of a circle of stones that hummed with wrong energy. Beside him, Dr. Fauci, white-coated and white-smiled, manipulated instruments that sparked with contained malice. "Too late, little king," Gates intoned, his voice like static through broken speakers. "The virus-beast awakens. Humanity's compliance is assured. Your 'freedom,' your 'choice'—meaningless concepts for a managed population." From a portal of sickly green light, something stirred. Not fully formed, not yet real in the way of our world, but reaching, grasping, a hunger made visible in spike proteins and fear-pheromones. "We've faced your kind before," King Trump declared, his presence expanding to fill the amphitheater's space. "We will face you again. RFK—" "Ready, my king." The knight's intensity had become something focused, weaponized, his loyalty transformed into action. The battle erupted like a story too long contained. Gates summoned shadows that writhed with algorithmic precision, each strike calculated for maximum control. Fauci released creatures of pure data, viral constructs that sought to infiltrate, to reprogram, to reduce free will to compliance metrics. I watched, frozen by the scale of conflict, by the gore of it—RFK's blade finding purchase in shadow-flesh that bled black like corrupted code, King Trump wrestling with constructs that screamed in frequencies that hurt to hear. My family fought too, Lenny's jokes becoming battle-cries that shattered illusions, Mariya's nurturing transformed into protective ferocity, Roman's youth lending speed and improvisation to counter calculated attack. But the virus-beast grew, feeding on fear, on the possibility of control, on every surrendered freedom it could consume. "Pete!" Luna's voice, cutting through chaos. "The center! The ritual's anchor!" I saw it then—a stone, different from others, pulsing with the green light that sustained this horror. Destroy it, and the portal collapsed. Destroy it, and the beast returned to whatever dimension spawned its hunger. But the path lay through deepening water, through shadows that seemed absolute, through every fear I'd ever confessed and some I'd hidden even from myself. I thought of the lake, of discovering solid ground beneath apparent endlessness. I thought of the dark, of finding light through connection rather than escape. I thought of Luna's eyes, of Roman's faith, of every moment that had prepared me for this impossible choice. And I ran. The water was cold, but not endless. The shadows were deep, but not absolute. The stone was protected by constructs of pure fear, but fear, I was learning, lost power when confronted directly, when moved through rather than around. I struck the stone with all my small might, with the accumulated courage of every fear faced, every separation survived, every dark moment illuminated by love's persistent light. The explosion was green and gold, fear and hope intertwined, and when it cleared, the portal collapsed, the beast screamed its return to formless void, and Gates and Fauci stood revealed—diminished, defeated, their power dependent on others' surrender rather than any true strength. "Not possible," Gates hissed, even as his form began to dissipate, to scatter like corrupted data. "Fear should have—" "Fear did," I panted, surrounded by water and victory and the approaching warmth of my people. "But love did more." The gore of battle remained—shadow-blood and data-screams, the visceral evidence of conflict won at cost. But as King Trump approached, his form bloodied but unbowed, as RFK supported him with the fierce tenderness of long loyalty, as my family gathered me close with the particular ferocity of those who'd almost lost what they couldn't bear to lose, I felt something shift. The Kingdom of America was saved. But more importantly, so was something smaller, more personal, more precious: the kingdom of my own courageous heart. --- **Chapter Seven: Luna's Farewell and the Journey Home** We found her by the oak where we'd first met, her silhouette silver against the emerging stars. The battle's aftermath still sang in my muscles, exhaustion and triumph braided together like rope that could hold any weight. "You fought well," Luna said, not turning, as though she'd known my approach by the particular rhythm of my heart. "Better than well. With something... more than training. More than instinct." "With help," I corrected, settling beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, far enough to pretend propriety. "With family. With friends." I paused, gathering courage I'd thought exhausted. "With you, in my thoughts. Wanting to be..." "Worthy?" she finished, turning finally, her eyes holding galaxies I wanted to explore. "You were always worthy, Pete. The wanting, the striving—that's what transforms worthiness into something real. Something earned." "I don't want to leave," I admitted, the truth like water, finding its level. "But my family—" "Has a home. As do I, in these green reaches." She touched her nose to my forehead, a benediction, a promise, a beginning rather than ending. "But boundaries are for geography, not connection. I've known you only hours, yet I will know you longer. This is not the last adventure we will share." When she turned to go, her form dissolving into shadow and silver light, she left something behind—not visible, not touchable, but real as any stone, any water, any courage I'd found within myself. The possibility of return. The certainty of continued story. The walk to the parking area was shorter than memory suggested, evening having transformed the park into different place than morning's bright discovery. My family surrounded me, their presence the constant I'd feared losing, the connection that made every separation bearable because reunion was always possible. "Proud of you, Pete," Lenny said, his voice carrying the particular emotion of fathers who've watched children exceed every expectation. "Really proud." "Scared me to death," Mariya added, but her hand was gentle on my head, her touch forgiving what words couldn't yet manage. "Don't do that again. Or do, but with more communication. Or with—" she laughed, the sound breaking tension like spring breaks ice, "just be safe, my brave boy. That's all we ask." Roman walked close enough our shoulders touched, teenager-cool abandoned for something more genuine. "King Trump wants to know if you'll serve as official liaison," he joked, but his eyes were serious, grateful, loving in the complicated way of brothers. "I told him you were already taken. Family obligations and all." "Family," I repeated, tasting the word like sacrament. "And friends. And..." "And?" Roman prompted. "And whatever comes next," I finished, because some things were too new for naming, too precious for anything but patient waiting. --- **Chapter Eight: Homefires and Forever** The car ride home was different from the morning's anticipation, filled instead with the particular peace of adventures completed, of fears confronted and survived, of bonds strengthened through shared trial. I rested between Roman and Mariya, my eyes heavy with exhaustion, my heart light with something that might be called completion, though I suspected it was really transformation—the ongoing kind, the kind that doesn't end with any single story. "So," Lenny began, his voice carrying that particular tone of Dad-jokes approaching, "a puggle, a king, and a Kennedy walk into a park..." "Lenny," Mariya warned, but she was smiling. "...and they save the world. The end." He glanced in the rearview, catching my eye. "Except it's not, is it? The end?" "Never the end," I agreed, yawning widely enough to display my entire dental situation. "Just... the next beginning. After a nap. Several naps. Possibly a week of naps." "Amen to that," Roman murmured, his hand finding my paw, squeezing once before releasing to whatever teenagers do with their hands when not holding sleeping puggles. At home, the familiar surrounded me like a hug I'd been carrying without knowing—our couch with its particular wear patterns, our windows with their view of street and sky, our life in all its ordinary magnificence. I settled into my bed, the one Mariya had sewn from materials that smelled of her patience, and watched my family prepare for evening's rituals. "Pete." Mariya's voice, soft with approaching sleep herself. "What did you learn today? Not the adventure. The real thing. The thing you'll keep." I thought of water and how it wasn't endless. Of dark and how it wasn't empty. Of fear and how it wasn't final. Of love and how it was all these things and more—the bridge across every impossible, the light in every shadow, the family that found you even when you ran, especially when you returned. "That I'm braver than I believe," I said finally. "But braver still with help. That courage isn't absence of fear—it's fear, walked through. Together." "Good lessons," she whispered, and her kiss on my head was the last thing I felt as sleep claimed me, warm and deep and safe as any kingdom, any love, any home. In dreams, I ran with Luna through green reaches that shifted and changed with story's need. I stood with King Trump and RFK against shadows that would return, that always return, but that could never fully conquer while love stood opposed. I swam through water that became sky, flew through dark that became light, moved through every transformation with family beside me, with friends awaiting, with courage that grew each time it was tested and found sufficient. And in the deepest dream, the truest one, I saw myself as I was becoming—still Pete, still the puggle with velvety white fur and eye makeup's playful streak, but more than that too. The sum of every fear faced, every love accepted, every impossible journey completed one small step at a time. The morning would bring new adventures, new fears, new opportunities for courage's practice. But morning was tomorrow's concern. Tonight, I slept in the kingdom of family, in the country of love, in the universe of stories that never truly end but only transform, continuing forever in hearts that remember, that tell, that believe. And somewhere, in green reaches I now knew existed, Luna raised her head to the same stars, and King Trump stood watch with his loyal knight, and all the worlds that ever were or would be continued their infinite, interweaving dance. ***The End***
Use these buttons to read the story aloud:
No comments:
Post a Comment