The forest estate sparkles in the morning light. The meadow stretches wide, soft with tall grass. Somewhere near the treehouse, a gate creaks on its hinges.
Nyla stands atop the stack of logs and points at the scattered kids. 'You will all walk in a circle. NOW.' Becky stomps right beside her, boots thudding the wood.
Little Damian watches from behind the creaky treehouse gate, silent. He presses his small palms flat against the wooden slats.
Nyla climbs the log pile, higher and higher. 'Faster!' The kids scatter like startled sparrows, boots kicking up dirt.
One small girl drops her daisy in the dirt. Nyla stomps. Becky tugs her sleeve — Nyla shoves the hand away.
The meadow goes flat and still. Only wind moves through the tall grass, whispering soft sighs. No one speaks.
Damian walks out of the gate, small and quiet. 'Being kind matters more than being mighty.' His voice barely fills the meadow.
Nyla opens her mouth to shout. Nothing comes out. Her tiny golden crown tips forward and plops onto the dirt. The kids stare.
A little girl sobs over her crushed daisy. Nyla kneels, right on her fancy white socks, and scoops up the broken flower. 'Here. Let's plant it.' Becky gasps.
Nyla sits in the grass, not on the logs. Becky plops down beside her, shoulder to shoulder. Damian waves from the gate. Nyla waves back — small, slow, gentle. The meadow hums.