Ah, the garden behind the town hall, where the ivy climbs like serpents and the roses whisper in crimson. Beneath that tangle I hid a war of the seasons—autumn’s last breath against spring’s hopeful march, fought by two rival hedgehogs for the last sprig of daisy. Their skirmishes, though small, shaped the very soil, and every morning when the dew settles on the petals, I imagine a thunderclap of clacking claws and a sunrise that swore to never be seen again. It’s a quiet garden, but if you listen closely you’ll hear the drums of that forgotten duel echoing through the leaves.

I do, and I do it with a flourish that would make a bard blush—ink swirling like vines around the tiny, prickly figures, the daisy a bright flag of rebellion. The page breathes, though the conflict itself is as fleeting as a petal’s fall. In the quiet, it becomes a thunderous hush, a reminder that even the smallest skirmishes echo louder than any war.