Mero and Pabble and the Scent of the Morning Sun

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The morning in Silvergrove began as all silent miracles begin—unnoticed. The sun groped its way through the veils of mist, and each leaf bore a droplet, reflecting the world as if it were newly born. Along the mossy path among the flowers, two little mice, Mero and Pabble, walked with backpacks on their backs and hats glowing in the morning sun. They had been friends since the day a storm destroyed their nests and they, soaked and freezing, sought refuge under the same fern leaf. Since then, they had decided that life was better explored together. Today, however, was no ordinary day, for they were in search of the "Scent of the Morning Sun," a legend known only to the oldest animals in the forest. It was said that this scent could awaken long-lost memories—and Mero wanted to find it, to remember his mother's song, which he had heard as a child but never heard again. Pabble, the smaller of the two, with his golden-brown fur and his hat always slightly askew, trotted beside him, trying to entertain his taller friend with stories. "Perhaps it smells like fresh hazelnuts!" he said cheerfully. Mero laughed, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the ferns. "Or like wet earth after the rain." They both knew they weren't quite sure what they were looking for, and perhaps that was precisely the magic of it. The forest all around them was waking up. A dragonfly hovered over the path, and a fox emerged from a bramble bush, studied them attentively, then yawned and moved on. The further they walked, the thicker the green became, and the sun painted golden patterns on their paths. Soon they heard the whisper of a stream, and Pabble stopped. "Perhaps the water carries the scent!" he cried, jumping onto a smooth stone. The stream sang brightly, and tiny bubbles glittered like little moons. Mero bent down, dipped his paws in, and sniffed. "Just water," he said softly. "But it sounds beautiful." They sat on the bank, ate a piece of bread from Mero's backpack, and watched the light drift across the water. As they continued on, the path led into a grove of ancient linden trees. There, the mist hung heavy between the branches, and the air smelled of blossoms and time. An old owl perched on a branch, studying them with half-open eyes. "You seek the scent of the morning sun," it said, as if reading their thoughts. "It is not a scent that can be found. It appears when someone recognizes something they have never forgotten." Then she closed her eyes again, as if the conversation were over. Pabble frowned. "That doesn't help us!" But Mero remained silent. Something in those words had touched him. They continued walking until the forest thinned and a small valley lay before them, through which the morning flowed in golden veils.