A bedtime story 🥱🛏️🥱
Little Monk sat close to the fire, wrapped in a warm blanket. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, but here, by the flickering flames, everything felt safe.
Little Monk sat close to the fire, wrapped in a warm blanket. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, but here, by the flickering flames, everything felt safe.
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Little Monk nodded.
Old Monk blew gently on the spark. It flickered, then vanished. “Where did it go?” he asked.
Old Monk shook his head. “Look closer.” He poked a fresh log into the flames. The fire leapt up, warm and bright. “The spark was never gone. It became the fire again.”
Little Monk’s eyes widened. “So the spark and the fire are the same?”
Little Monk smiled and pulled his blanket tighter. The fire crackled, wrapping the room in its golden glow.
And as his eyes grew heavy, he felt warm inside—like a tiny spark, safe in the great fire of everything.