Deep in the heart of the forest, where the trees stood tall and the air was thick with summer calm, a great brown bear named Moss found his favorite spot beneath an old oak tree.

It was afternoon—the warmest time of day. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden ribbons, casting flickers of light on the forest floor. Birds chirped lazily, and a soft breeze danced through the leaves, humming a lullaby only the woods could compose.

Moss yawned, his wide mouth stretching as he blinked slowly at the world. He had spent the morning ambling through berry bushes, his belly now pleasantly full. He lumbered in a circle, flattening a patch of moss and wildflowers, then dropped his heavy body onto the earth with a satisfied huff.

Around him, the forest carried on—squirrels darted through branches, bees hummed in the clover—but Moss lay still. His breathing slowed, deep and even, like the rhythm of the forest itself.

In his dreams, the forest was endless and soft, with honey rivers and skies that never rumbled.

The sun dipped slightly, shadows stretching. But Moss slept on, wrapped in the peace only an old forest and a full belly could offer.