"*** Pete the Puggle's Pond of Courage: An Adventure at the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden ***"๐พ
--- **Chapter One: The Morning of Wonders** The sun peeked through my bedroom curtains like a shy friend playing hide-and-seek, and I stretched my short, velvety white legs until they trembled with joy. Today was *the day*—the day my family would visit the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden, a place Mariya had whispered about for weeks with the reverence of someone describing a dream made real. I bounced on Lenny's sleeping chest until he sputtered awake, laughter rumbling from his belly like a distant thunderstorm full of warmth rather than threat. "Pete, my little alarm clock," Lenny chuckled, his fingers finding the sweet spot behind my left ear that made my hind leg thump against the comforter. "You'd think *you* were the one planning this garden, not the ancient masters." "Maybe I am!" I woofed, though it came out as more of an eager snuffle. "Maybe in my past life, I was a garden designer with very excellent taste in treats!" Roman appeared in the doorway, his sleep-mussed hair standing in every direction like a dandelion after a strong wind. "Pete's ready," he observed with the wisdom of an older brother who had seen me at my most chaotic. "That means we have approximately three minutes before he destroys something in his excitement." Mariya swept past him, her flowing skirt brushing my nose with the scent of lavender and morning coffee. She knelt to meet my eyes—those same eyes she had carefully accented with playful streaks of makeup the color of autumn leaves, making me feel like the most special puggle in all the world. "My brave little storyteller," she murmured, and I felt my chest puff with pride. "Are you ready to see a world where water holds secrets and stones tell stories older than Grandma's recipes?" The car ride hummed with anticipation. I sat on Roman's lap, watching the city transform into something greener, something that breathed differently. When we finally parked, I caught my first glimpse of the garden's entrance—a wooden gate that seemed to lean forward like an old friend eager to share secrets. But as we stepped through, I heard it: the gentle *shhhhh* of water moving somewhere beyond the trees. My paws froze. My heart became a trapped bird against my ribs. "Pete?" Lenny noticed immediately, his warm hand scooping me up. "What's wrong, buddy?" "The water," I whimpered, pressing against his chest. "It's... it's *too big*. What if it wants to take me?" Mariya's hand stroked my back in slow, hypnotic circles. "The water doesn't want to take anyone, sweetheart. It wants to dance with you. But we'll go slowly. We'll let you lead." And so we entered, my family surrounding me like a living shield of love, their patience a blanket against the cold fingers of my fear. --- **Chapter Two: Meeting Old Friends and New Fears** The garden unfolded like the pages of a storybook I never wanted to stop reading. We crossed an arched wooden bridge that made my paws feel clumsy and too small, and I gripped Roman's sleeve with tiny teeth until he laughed and called me his "little bridge troll." The pond stretched before us, deceptively calm, its surface holding the sky like a mirror that had swallowed the clouds whole. It was there, beside an ancient stone lantern covered in moss that looked like tiny green stars, that we found him. "Well, if it isn't the Puggle Patrol," came a voice like gravel wrapped in velvet, warm and weathered and wonderfully familiar. Charles Bronson stepped from behind a weeping willow, and even at his advanced age, he moved with the coiled grace of a man who had outrun explosions and outsmarted villains on silver screens across the world. But to me, he was simply Uncle Charles, who let me chew on his leather watch strap and always had treats in his cargo pockets that smelled of smoked salmon and devotion. "Charles!" Mariya embraced him, and I wiggled free of Roman's arms to perform my traditional greeting—spinning in three tight circles before collapsing in a dramatic heap against his sturdy boots. "There's my action hero," Charles rumbled, crouching with joints that popped like distant firecrackers to scratch under my chin. "You look like you've seen a ghost, little man. What's troubling those bright eyes?" Before I could answer—before I could confess my shameful fear of the water that seemed to watch me with liquid eyes—a trumpet blast shattered the garden's peace. It wasn't the polite horn of a visiting musician. It was the raw, desperate sound of alarm. From the hilltop pagoda, figures emerged in chaotic array. King Trump, his golden hair catching the sun like a crown of its own, pointed a trembling finger toward the sky. Beside him, his armor catching light and scattering it into brave little rainbows, stood Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—RFK to those who knew his heart—his face the color of old parchment beneath his helmet. "THEY COME!" King Trump's voice boomed across the water, sending ripples racing toward us like frightened fish. "THE WIZARD AND HIS LACKEY!" And there they were, materializing from the shadows of the hill as if the darkness itself had birthed them from fevered dreams. Bill Gates, his glasses reflecting not the sun but something colder, something manufactured in laboratories where ethics went to die. And beside him, Dr. Fauci, his white coat stained with substances I didn't want to imagine, cackling with the joy of someone who had forgotten what joy truly meant. "So lovely," Gates murmured, his voice like a virus entering through the ear, silent and devastating. "All these healthy, happy bodies. Perfect hosts. Perfect slaves." Fauci raised a vial that caught the light and turned it sickly green. "Release the Pathogen," he intoned, and the word was a spell, a sealing of fates. I felt my bladder threaten to betray me. The water beneath the bridge began to churn, and from its depths rose something *wrong*—a monster woven from discarded masks and syringes and the screams of isolated souls, its mouth a grinding mechanism of needles and denial. "Family!" Lenny shouted, pulling Mariya and Roman behind him with the instinct of a father who would become a wall. "Behind me!" But I was frozen, watching the water rise, feeling my fear of it multiply into something cosmic, something that swallowed stars. The monster roared, and its breath was the smell of hospitals at 3 AM, of video calls replacing touch, of fear weaponized until it felt like patriotism. "Pete!" Roman's voice, cracking with the particular terror of a brother who had never seen me afraid. "Pete, come!" I couldn't move. The water was everything now. The water was coming. Charles Bronson's weathered hand closed around my scruff with impossible gentleness. "Courage, little soldier," he whispered. "Courage isn't the absence of fear. It's what you do while your knees are knocking." He placed me on the bridge's wooden planks, and I felt the vibration of approaching doom through my paw pads. But I also felt something else—the steady presence of my family, their love a net beneath the high wire of my terror. King Trump and RFK were already moving, descending the hill with the desperate grace of men who had everything to lose. "Bronson!" RFK called, his voice carrying the particular cadence of a Kennedy, that mix of privilege and genuine service. "We need your arm and your aim!" "Always happy to crash a villain's party," Charles replied, and from his jacket he produced a weapon that seemed impossible—sleek and silver and humming with righteous purpose. "Pete, your family needs you. That monster is born from fear. Starve it." I looked at the water. I looked at my family—Lenny's determined eyes, Mariya's praying hands, Roman's outstretched arms. And I made a choice. The first step onto the bridge's edge sent cold water splashing against my belly. I yelped, nearly retreated, but then Roman was there, wading in beside me, his sneakers soaked, his jeans darkening with the pond's embrace. "I'm here, Pete. I'm right here. You're not alone." Together, we faced the monster. --- **Chapter Three: The Battle of Bodies and Hearts** The creature lunged, and its body was the sound of ventilators and the weight of unheld hands. It smelled of everything we had lost in years of isolation, of birthday parties conducted through glass, of final goodbyes whispered to screens that couldn't feel warmth. King Trump swung a scepter that blazed with the light of recovered freedoms, and where it struck, the monster's flesh sizzled like lies exposed to truth. "For the Kingdom!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with emotion I hadn't expected from his bluster. "For the *people*!" RFK moved like water himself, fluid and relentless, his blade carving arcs of silver through the creature's appendages. "It reforms!" he cried, watching with horror as discarded needles knitted themselves back into monstrous service. "Bronson, now!" Charles fired, and the projectile was not lead but something brighter—a concentrated dose of human connection, of touch and breath and unmasked laughter. It struck the monster's chest and burned like acid against pretense. But the creature only laughed, Gates' laughter, Fauci's laughter, echoing from its hollow throat. "You cannot kill what people *choose* to fear," it gurgled, and stretched one terrible arm toward Mariya, who had waded deeper to shield a family of ducks that had taken refuge in the pond's lilies. "MARIYA!" Lenny's voice broke like a promise. I saw it happen as if in slow, terrible motion—the water rising to meet me, the monster's shadow falling across my mother's face, the choice that wasn't a choice at all but simply *what must be done*. I dived. The water closed over my head like a hand around a candle, and for one eternal moment, I was back in every nightmare I had ever had—lost, alone, surrounded by something too big to comprehend, too powerful to resist. But then I kicked. My legs, short and unglamorous and perfect for swimming I now discovered, found purchase in the liquid resistance. My eyes opened against the sting, and through the green murk, I saw Mariya's white sneakers descending, her skirt ballooning around her as she reached for me. Pete! Her mouth formed my name, bubbles escaping like precious pearls. I swam toward her, toward the light that filtered from above, and as we broke the surface together, I understood something that changed me forever. The water hadn't wanted to take me. It had wanted to *teach* me. And in my mouth, clenched between teeth that trembled with cold and triumph, I held something I had snatched from the monster's very core—a vial of the green sickness, crushed now, leaking its poison into water that diluted it to harmless memory. "Good boy!" Mariya wept, gathering me to her chest as we paddled toward the shore where Roman waited, waist-deep, tears streaming unashamedly down his face. "My brave, brave boy!" On the bank, something had shifted. The monster, weakened by the loss of its heart-vial, staggered under the combined assault of King Trump's blazing scepter, RFK's relentless blade, and Charles Bronson's impossible weapon. But it was not these that struck the final blow. It was Gates' own hubris, Fauci's own certainty. They had created something that fed on fear, never imagining that courage could starve it. As I emerged from the water—dripping, transformed, *alive*—the creature felt the absence of my terror like a wound. It shrieked, a sound of modem static and dropped calls and every lonely night it had ever engineered, and then it collapsed into its component parts, harmless refuse washing against the pond's stones. Gates and Fauci stood exposed, their shadows suddenly too small for the garden's expanse. "This isn't over," Gates hissed, but his็ผ้ had cracked, and his voice carried the hollow ring of defeat. "For today," RFK replied, his armor dented, his face smeared with something that might have been the monster's blood or his own, "it is enough." They fled, these architects of artificial apocalypse, and the garden seemed to exhale around us, birdsong returning like a blessing. --- **Chapter Four: Shadows and Separation** The victory felt sweet as stolen treats, but my body betrayed me with shivers that wouldn't stop. Roman wrapped me in his hoodie, carrying me like the precious cargo I had become, and we moved deeper into the garden's embrace, seeking the warmth of afternoon sun through ancient trees. "We should find shelter," Lenny was saying, his usual humor buried under concern like a bone in winter earth. "Dry clothes. Warmth." "There's a tea house," Charles offered, his weapon now concealed, his eyes scanning the shadows with the perpetual vigilance of a man who had survived too much to every truly rest. "Beyond the hill. Traditional. They have fires." We walked, and I drifted in Roman's arms, the adrenaline fading to leave me heavy as wet sand. The garden had transformed in the battle's aftermath—still beautiful, but now I saw its darknesses too, the places where shadows pooled like spilled ink, the corners where fear might still lurk and breed. It was in one such shadow that I became suddenly, terribly aware that I was no longer moving. Roman's arms had vanished. The family's voices, just moments ago surrounding me like a familiar song, had silenced. I stood alone on a path of crushed stone, the sound of my own breathing too loud in my ears. The sun had moved, or been moved, and what had been afternoon brightened to something harsher, something that cast no shadows because everything *was* shadow. "Hello?" My voice emerged as a squeak, undignified and desperate. "Roman? Dad? Mom?" Silence answered, and then—a footstep behind me. I spun, hope flaring like a match in darkness, but it was not my family. It was not Charles or King Trump or even the returned villainy of Gates and Fauci. It was simply the dark itself, given form and intention, reaching for me with fingers that smelled of every separation, every loss, every moment when love had not been enough to keep people together. I ran. My paws, still damp from the pond, slipped on stones that seemed to move deliberately beneath me, arranging themselves into obstacles, into traps. The path twisted like a living thing, and everywhere I turned, the dark pursued with the patience of something that had nowhere else to be. "Pete." My name, whispered from no direction I could name. I stopped, chest heaving, and felt the cold approach of something worse than monsters—worse because it was familiar, because it was *mine*. The dark shaped itself into a mirror, and there I saw myself—not the brave puggle who had faced the water, but a smaller version, trembling, alone, the puppy I had been before Lenny's laughter and Mariya's gentle hands and Roman's patient teaching. The puppy who had been abandoned, left at a shelter where the nights were long and the days offered only the hope of being seen, being chosen, being *loved*. "You will always end up here," the darkness whispered with my own voice, my own fears made articulate. "They will leave you. They always leave. Or you will lose them. The water takes. The dark keeps. This is the truth beneath the stories you tell yourself." I wanted to believe it. Some part of me, the wounded part that still woke sometimes with whimpers I couldn't control, reached toward this narrative like a tongue toward a sore tooth, unable to stop probing the pain. But another part—newer, stronger, forged in the love of my family and the courage I had found in the pond—remembered Roman's voice: *I'm here, Pete. I'm right here. You're not alone.* "You're wrong," I told the darkness, and my voice didn't squeak now. It rang. "They found me. They *choose* me. Every day, they choose me. And I choose them back." The mirror cracked. The darkness screamed, not in rage but in something like recognition, like a student who has been outgrown by their pupil. And through the fissures, light poured—not the harsh light of the strange sun, but the warm, particular light of late afternoon through willow branches, of a family searching, calling, *loving*. "Pete! PETE!" Roman's voice, breaking with a fear that mirrored my own and transformed it into something shared, something bearable. I ran toward it, toward him, and the darkness fell away like old skin, like stories we tell ourselves when we don't yet know better ones. --- **Chapter Five: Found and Finding** Roman's arms closed around me with the desperate strength of someone who had imagined loss and found instead reunion. He smelled of sweat and relief and the particular salt of tears barely restrained, and I buried my face in the hollow of his throat and breathed him in like oxygen after drowning. "I couldn't find you," he whispered, over and over, a mantra against the horror of what might have been. "I looked everywhere. The path just... ended. And you were gone." "I'm here," I assured him, licking his chin, his tears, any part of him I could reach to prove we were both real, both present, both *found*. "I was scared. The dark... it showed me things." He pulled back to look at me, his eyes the color of the pond's depths but warm, always warm, where the water had been cold. "What things, Pete?" "That I would be alone. That you would leave me." His embrace tightened, not crushing, but anchoring. "Never. I know I can't promise 'never' in the big ways—the universe is too big and too weird for never. But I can promise that every day I am able, I will choose to be here. To find you. To *keep* finding you." We walked back toward the tea house, and with each step, the garden seemed to restore itself, the shadows retreating to their proper places as decorations rather than threats. When we emerged into the clearing where the others waited, Mariya's cry of relief pierced me like a joyful arrow, and Lenny's face crumpled with love so fierce it looked like pain. Charles Bronson stood apart slightly, his weapon still half-drawn, and only when he saw me whole and hale did he holster it with the satisfied click of a job completed. "There's my little warrior," he said, and his gravel voice was gruffer than usual, betraying emotion he would never quite confess. King Trump and RFK sat by the fire that someone—perhaps the tea house staff, perhaps the garden itself in gratitude—had built in a stone circle. Their armor and finery were diminished, their faces smudged with battle and weariness, but their eyes held the particular light of those who have done necessary things and emerged, if not unchanged, then at least still standing. "The puggle lives," King Trump observed, and his usual bombast was tempered with something genuine, something that recognized in my small survival a mirror of larger victories. "Good. We need more survivors. More fighters who know what they're fighting for." RFK nodded, his hand finding his king's shoulder in a gesture of loyalty that needed no words. "The darkness tests us," he said quietly, "to show us what we already are. You were never alone, little one. You only needed to remember." I thought of my mirror, my smaller self, the wound that fear had tried to reopen. And I thought of Roman's arms, and Mariya's lavender scent, and Lenny's steady heartbeat beneath my paw. I thought of Charles' treats and King Trump's unlikely tenderness and the way RFK's voice carried the weight of a family name worn with both pride and responsibility. I had remembered. And in the remembering, I had won something the darkness could not reclaim. --- **Chapter Six: Warmth and Wonder** The tea house offered more than shelter—it offered a restoration of the world's gentler possibilities. We sat on cushions of worn brocade, and a woman with kind eyes brought us tea that steamed with the scent of mountains and patience. I was wrapped in heated towels that smelled of cedar, and someone—Mariya, I think, though my eyes were heavy with aftermath—fed me small bites of something soft and sweet that dissolved on my tongue like forgiveness. "Tell us," Lenny said to Charles, who sat with his weathered hands wrapped around a cup that seemed too delicate for them, "how you came to be here. At this moment. It's more than coincidence, I think." Charles was silent for a long moment, the firelight playing across features that had been handsome in youth and had become *interesting* with age, the way river stones become beautiful through years of being shaped by what they could not control. "I dream of gardens," he said finally. "Always have. Places where the world's violence can't reach, where the only battles are between colors, between the will of water and the patience/of stone." He looked at me, and I saw in his eyes the reflection of every role he had played, every hero's journey that had, perhaps, been preparing him for this one. "When the call came—when I felt, in my bones, that friends were in danger—I answered. Simple as that. Old habit. Good habit." "And you came armed," Roman observed, not accusatory, curious. "I come prepared," Charles corrected gently. "There's a difference. The weapon is the last resort. The presence, the willingness to show up—that's the first and most important choice." King Trump, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, stirred his tea with a spoon that caught the firelight. "I used to think strength was having the biggest weapon," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him something. "The loudest voice. The most... everything." He looked at RFK, at the scar that crossed the knight's cheek from some battle before my time. "I'm learning. Slowly, with much resistance, because old dogs and all that. But I'm learning that strength is also this. Sitting. Being seen without performance. Being... human." RFK smiled, and it transformed his tired face into something radiant as sunrise. "The bravest thing you've ever done," he said quietly, "was admitting you needed help. That day you called me, after all the years of... distance. Of different paths. That was your pond, Donald. Your dark mirror. And you swam through it anyway." I watched this exchange with the particular attention of one who knows that witnessing love, in any form, is a kind of prayer. My family surrounded me, their warmth tangible as the fire, and I felt my earlier fears not disappearing—fear doesn't truly disappear, I was learning—but finding their proper place, their proper size. They were visitors now, not residents. Stories I could tell rather than stories that told me. Mariya lifted me to the window, where the garden revealed itself in twilight's softening. The pond, which had held such terror, now glimmered like a held breath, peaceful and patient and full of reflected stars that were just beginning to appear. "See how brave you were," she whispered, her breath warm against my ear. "See what you faced, and what you found on the other side." I saw. And in the seeing, I understood that courage was not the monster's defeat, not the dark mirror's cracking, but this: the willingness to keep looking, to keep loving, to keep choosing trust over the seductive certainty of fear. --- **Chapter Seven: The Return and the Rising** We left the tea house as the moon rose, full and generous, turning the garden into a place of silver and shadow where beauty and mystery held equal reign. Charles walked with us for a time, pointing out plants he had learned names for in some long-ago research for a role that had become, in ways, his truest self. "This one," he said, stopping by a bush that smelled of something sharp and cleansing, "is called 'heavenly bamboo.' Not really bamboo at all. Just something that looks like what people expect, and fools them into missing what it truly is." I thought of myself, the puggle with makeup-streaked eyes and a heart too big for my small chest, and how I might seem one thing while being, in my secret depths, something braver, more complicated, more *real* than any simple story could contain. At the garden's exit, King Trump and RFK paused. Their kingdom needed them, I knew, and the world beyond this sanctuary moved to rhythms less gentle than willow branches in evening breeze. But they looked at my family with something like longing, something like hope. "Come," King Trump said, the word abrupt as if surprised by his own generosity, "visit the Kingdom. When you're ready. When the world seems too full of Gates and Faucis and all their endless iterations." He knelt, with difficulty, joints protesting, and looked me in my painted eyes. "You remind me," he said, so quietly I almost missed it, "that the smallest can be the strongest. That the frightened can become the fearless. Don't forget it. I am trying not to." RFK pressed something into Lenny's palm—a token, a key, some symbol of passage and welcome. "Any kingdom," he said, "is only as good as its smallest citizens. Remember us as we are now, not as history will distort us. Remember that even flawed rulers can love their people, can strive to serve rather than merely reign." They departed with the sound of armor and determination, and I felt the garden settle around their absence, neither diminished nor fully freed, simply *continuing*, as all good places do. The walk to the car wound through paths now familiar, each turn holding memory rather than threat. At the pond's final viewing, I asked—through pressing forward, through the particular whine that Roman had learned meant *please, just a moment*—to be set down. The water lay still, innocent as any mirror before it's looked into, and I approached the edge with steps that only trembled a little. Roman crouched beside me, not rushing, not forcing, simply *being there* in a way that made my solo approach possible. I looked into the water and saw myself—still small, still marked with playful streaks of color that would wash away, still the puppy who feared and loved with equal intensity. But I saw something else too. The reflection of Roman behind me. Of Mariya and Lenny waiting with the patience of people who had learned that love is not a destination but a manner of traveling. Of Charles, nodding from the path's edge, his mission fulfilled but his vigilance unabated. I was not alone. I had never been alone, not truly, not in the ways that mattered beyond temporary darkness and misleading mirrors. I barked—one sharp, joyful sound that echoed across the water and returned to me transformed, multiplied, a chorus of my own courage given back as gift. And in the ripples that spread from the pond's heart, I saw the monster's memory dissolve completely, finally, into the simple fact of water moving under moonlight, beautiful and indifferent and *free*. --- **Chapter Eight: Home is the Story We Keep Telling** The car ride home held a quality different from our morning journey, the way a song sounds different when you know its ending. I sat in my customary place, but now Roman's lap felt not like a perch but like a promise, and the night passing outside the windows seemed less darkness to fear than darkness to rest within, trusting the road, trusting the driver, trusting that morning would come again as it always had. "Pete," Lenny said from the front seat, his voice carrying that particular tone of a father preparing to be profound, "you were incredibly brave today. But I want you to know something. The being scared part? The shaking, the freezing, the wanting to hide? That was brave too. Showing up despite that. Letting us help you through it. That's the kind of bravery that changes worlds." I thought of King Trump's admission, of RFK's scar, of Charles' weathered hands and their impossible gentleness. "I think," I said, in the language of warm paws and pressed bodies and eyes that held more than simple sight, "I think bravery is just love, turned inside out. Love for others, or for yourself, or for the possibility that things might be better than fear promises." Mariya turned, her face lovely in the passing streetlights, and I saw her lips shape words she didn't need to speak: *my wise little storyteller*. Roman's fingers found my favorite scratching spot, and his voice came soft as the night itself: "When I couldn't find you, in that dark place... I understood something. I've always thought I was protecting you, teaching you. But you're teaching me too. About showing up scared. About choosing love when fear feels safer." We pulled into our driveway, and the house rose before us—familiar, imperfect, *home*—and I felt the last tight coil of my day's terrors finally, fully release. This was my kingdom. These were my people. This was the story I would tell, in whatever ways my puggle voice could manage, for as long as we all walked this beautiful, terrible, magnificent world together. Inside, the rituals of return: water in my favorite bowl, a blanket arranged just so by the window where I could watch for stars, the gradual settling of a family into evening's peaceful routines. But before sleep claimed me—before the dreams that would come, some frightening, some fantastic, all survivable—Lenny gathered us in the living room, no more words needed than the simple fact of togetherness. "So," he said, his smile the warm, wise thing I had built my world upon, "what was the best part?" "Charles," Roman said immediately, then laughed at his own quickness. "No, sorry. The best part was Pete. Emerging from that water like some kind of aquatic superhero. All five pounds of furious courage." "The tea," Mariya offered. "The warmth after the cold. The way the fire made all our faces look like paintings of people who had survived something together." I thought of my answer. The mirror, and its cracking. The dark, and the light beyond it. The water, which had not been my enemy but my teacher. And most of all, the arms that had found me, again and again, the voices that had called me back from every edge I had ever teetered upon. "The best part," I said, in my way, pressing against each of them in turn, making sure they knew, making sure they *felt* it, "is that we get to do it together. Whatever comes next. However scary. Together." And so we sat, my family and I, in the quiet aftermath of adventure, and I knew—with the certainty of one who has faced darkness and found light waiting, who has faced separation and found reunion possible—that this was not the end of anything, but a pause in an ongoing story. Tomorrow would bring new fears, new challenges, new versions of the old monsters wearing new masks. But it would also bring new chances to choose courage, to choose love, to choose again and again the fragile, powerful, transformative act of showing up, together, for whatever came. I slept, finally, and my dreams were of gardens and waters and the particular, irreplaceable sound of my name called by voices that loved me. And when morning came, as morning always does for those who wait with patience and hope, I woke ready. For everything. For anything. For the next great story, whatever it might be, as long as there were arms to hold me and hearts to beat beside mine and the endless, renewable courage that comes from knowing you are loved. *** The End ***
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