Legend CVII – The Acorn Light

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In the twilight part of the forest, where autumn doesn't end but pauses, lived a small creature whose name was never spoken, for names carried weight there. It often sat on the gnarled branches of old oaks, its fur shimmering green like young moss, its eyes large and amber, as if they already held more of the world than its body could contain. Small horns grew from its head, not hard and menacing, but gently curved, as if they had apologized before appearing. No one had seen its birth. It was found one morning among the leaves, and the forest had decided that was enough. In its paws, it always held an acorn that glowed from within, warm and still, as if a heart of light beat within it. This acorn was not a seed in the ordinary sense. It was a promise. The creature didn't know why the acorn glowed, only that it had to. When it let go, the forest grew quieter, heavier, as if holding its breath. So it held on tight, gently, day after day. The light within it wasn't harsh, but evocative. It didn't show images, but feelings: the first green after winter, the crackling of old bark, the soft release of a leaf. Sometimes the creature believed the acorn had once hung on a tree that knew more than others, a tree that remembered everything that had happened beneath its shade. When that tree fell, the forest had placed the memory within the acorn so it wouldn't be lost. The little creature wasn't a guardian out of duty, but out of closeness. It knew the forest not as a place, but as a voice. When it scurried across the branches, the leaves rustled softly, not in fear, but in greeting. Animals stopped, watched it go, and even the wind changed its course so as not to disturb it. But with the changing of the seasons, the creature felt a restlessness that had nothing to do with fear. The acorn grew heavier. Its light pulsed more slowly, more deeply, as if preparing for something. On nights when mist hung between the trunks, the creature saw images that were not its own: a tree that longed to grow again, and roots that reached upward, not downward. The moment had come that no creature yearns for, yet must be found nonetheless. The little creature understood that the acorn was not meant to be held. It wanted to return to the earth, to where light turns to darkness, to bear something new. The thought was painful, not because of the threat of loss, but because closeness had to transform. For a long time, the creature sat on its branch, the acorn pressed to its chest, while the light within it grew weaker, not because it was extinguished, but because it was gathering.