B stands under the tallest tree, trunk stretched sky-high, ears out wide. No rustle, no leaf — just quiet.
A vine swings through and boops B's forehead. PFFFT! Mist splatters the bright flowers below, and B stamps: stomp, stomp, stomp.
B trumpets a small, wobbly call up into the cloud-tangled branches. A hundred green leaves rattle down. Green, green, green — they fall.
The golden leaf stays at the very top, caught on a single dry twig. B's ears flatten.
B stamps once — the flowers bow. Stamps twice — the undergrowth sways. Stamps three times, and the whole jungle floor hums.
Up above, the clouds pull apart and moonlight pours over the treetops. The dry twig creaks. Creak. Creak.
The twig snaps. The golden leaf spirals down — slow, slow, slow — turning through the bright flowers like a falling star.
It lands on B's forehead, and the forest goes quiet. B's trunk curls tight around the leaf. You are safe here, B thinks.
B carries the leaf to the soft mossy spot under the tree and lies down, trunk coiled around the golden leaf. The flowers dim one by one.
The clouds drift back over the treetops. B breathes out, long and slow. The trunk rests still.
