Animal Alphabet Letter D

The morning mist still clung to the treetops as Ahzu descended through a soft veil of clouds, his wings brushing the tops of pine and maple. Below, the forest shimmered with dew, and the pond—perfectly still—mirrored the sky so clearly it was hard to tell where heaven ended and earth began.

Ahzu settled onto a mossy clearing with a soft thump of his wings, sending tiny puffs of mist curling through the air.

Finn stepped down and looked around. Everything felt hushed, like even the birds had paused to listen. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of the pond and the whisper of a dragonfly's wings drifting by.

He whispered, not wanting to break the peaceful stillness, "It's so quiet."

"Some hearts speak that way," Grandfather Bramble replied. "They don't shout or rush. They wait. They ache. And sometimes... they begin to heal."

Liri tilted her head, her eyes scanning the reeds near the water.
"There," she said quietly, pointing. "Do you see her? That's Darla. She's lost her way."

*****

Darla wasn't sure how long she'd been at the pond. She only knew she was lonely and afraid.
She was a small duckling, all soft golden fluff and tiny webbed feet, with downy feathers that still stuck out at odd angles from her last tumble through the storm. One of her wings bent just slightly to the side—more ruffled than broken—like a ribbon that wouldn't lie flat.

The storm had come without warning, shouting through the trees like an angry giant, sweeping her brothers and sisters downstream in its furious arms. When the sun returned, she'd been alone.

She waddled to the edge of the pond each morning but never went in. The water looked too big now. Too wide. Too full of threatening memories.

The quiet was the hardest part—louder than thunder, emptier than the sky. She missed the quaking chatter of all the other ducks.

She stayed close to the shore, nibbling at bugs and curling into herself when the wind rustled too hard. She told herself she was fine, but she wasn't sure she felt that way.

Some part of her still listened for splashes that never came. For laughter that had blown away with the storm.

The deer had seen her from the trees. His name was Damon.

He was still young—a fawn with knobby knees and a coat dappled like sunlight through leaves. His legs wobbled sometimes when he walked downhill, but he always caught himself, pausing with the careful grace only forest creatures seem to know.

Damon didn't speak much these days either. Since his mother had stopped walking beside him, he'd learned how to walk quietly, eat quietly, and even grieve quietly.

He didn't know what to say to a duck with sad eyes. But he knew how to sit.

So he did.

Each day, as the sun warmed the pond, Damon would come down from the hill and settle in the grass near Darla. Not close enough to crowd her, not far enough to be missed. Just... there.

He brought her dandelions. Once, a single blue feather. Another time, a fallen apple that had rolled down the hill and split sweetly in two. Once, he placed a pinecone beside her, its scales dusted with golden sap that caught the sunlight like tiny stars.

Darla never said thank you. Not out loud. But she stopped hiding when he came. She stopped flinching when the wind blew. And when he blinked slowly at her, she blinked back.

It was on the seventh morning that Damon did something different.

He walked straight to the edge of the pond and lay down with his hooves touching the water. He didn't look at her. He didn't motion or speak.

He just waited.

Darla stepped forward, her webbed feet sinking into the soft earth. She hesitated. A dragonfly buzzed by, its wings catching the light like tiny stained-glass windows. Somewhere in the reeds, a frog gave an approving croak.

Darla took one slow step into the water. It was cold, but not frightening. Her little body bobbed gently with the ripples, like the pond had been waiting just for her.

She swam a slow circle and returned, her feathers damp, her heart fuller—as if something broken had gently shifted back into place.

Damon smiled without smiling. And Darla let her eyes close, just for a moment, in the sunlight.

From the hill above, Finn crouched beside Liri, his voice soft. "They didn't even talk."

"They didn't need to," she said.

"Grief doesn't always want words," Bramble added. "Sometimes, it just needs a place to rest. And someone willing to stay."

Ahzu let out a breath that stirred the reeds and scattered the mist. A single shimmering scale drifted down like a leaf and landed on the water's surface, sending out tiny rings like whispers.

Finn opened the Wonder Journal and wrote:

Lesson D

You don't have to fix someone's sadness.
You just have to stay close enough to be found.
Because healing often begins when someone stops feeling invisible.