Waldemar the Raccoon The First Step into Adventure

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I am Waldemar the raccoon. I wear a red hat, tightly strapped boots, and a backpack that crinkles softly as adventure approaches. Today is the day. Today the journey begins. The morning smelled of departure. Of damp earth, tender bark, and the slight trembling of what was about to happen. The sun peeped sleepily through the trees, and my burrow between two old roots was quieter than ever. No wind, no beetles, no whispers—as if even the forest were holding its breath. I strapped the backpack onto my back. Inside: a folded sheet of paper with a drawing I once dreamed, an empty tin for found objects, two cookies (oat and carrot, my favorite recipe), and a ball of red thread in case I ever needed to patch myself up again. The mirror at the entrance showed me my face. Not mischievous, not afraid. Just ready. "I'll be back," I murmured softly. Not because I knew it. But because it sounded comforting. Then I put on my red hat, closed the small mushroom-bark door behind me—and took the first step. The first step is like opening a book, not knowing whether it contains songs or silence. It crunched softly on the mossy ground, as if the path itself were waking up. I walked past the root with the carved heart. The spot where the leaves always remained golden, even when it rained. I greeted the crooked birch tree that had once taught me to climb and took one last look back. My home looked like something you dream about when you're homesick. But I wasn't homesick. Not yet. With every step, the forest widened. The familiar smells gave way to strangers: mint that didn't belong there. The hint of cinnamon. And once, I thought I smelled ink. Perhaps the day was writing its own story. The first few hours passed in gentle silence. I spoke only to myself—and to my hat, which listened to me better than many people. "We'll find friends," I told it. "Perhaps a fox who knows stories. Or a mole who draws maps from darkness." The hat was silent, but I felt it agreed. I stopped at a fork in the path. On the left: ferns, thick and green, like spun dreams. On the right: a narrow trail, barely visible, as if made by a thought, not an animal. I pulled one of the biscuit halves from my backpack, broke it in two, and placed one by the side of the path. For someone else. Perhaps it would bring luck. Perhaps a meeting. Then I took the right path. I didn't know where it led. But I knew: the first step had been taken. And sometimes that's enough.