Sometimes, in the soft folds of my imagination, I return to the calmest part of the world—a secret patch of Earth where stillness hums like a lullaby, and nothing exists but us and nature. Me and Lady Penelope, far away from duty, demands, or time, full of freedom beneath the open sky.
We find ourselves lying together in the grass, backs pressed to the cool earth, limbs soft, breath light. No noise. No city. Only the sound of wind weaving through tall grass, the occasional bird call, and the rise and fall of our quiet, steady breathing. The sun filters down through leaves and pine needles, golden and warm, brushing our skin like the softest cloth. We don’t speak—we don’t need to. We just are. At peace.
Later, we wander barefoot through the pines. The forest is still—every tree holding its breath. We walk slowly, taking in the green hush around us, the mossy earth cool beneath our feet. Pine needles carpet the floor in soft, quiet layers, and every now and then, a small cone or fern catches our attention, like nature leaving gentle gifts. It feels like being held by the forest.
Eventually, we reach the lake—its surface unbroken, reflecting sky and branch like polished glass. We step in slowly, the cold water climbing our legs like a shiver of new life. We swim without effort, without thought, drifting and ducking beneath the surface like creatures born of this place. When we climb out, droplets on our skin sparkle in the sun.
We dry in the grass, bellies to the sky, heads close together. I look at Penelope, and she looks at me—and in that glance, everything is understood. No one needs us here. There’s no mission, no timeline. Just the gift of quiet, and the freedom to feel everything: the warmth of the earth, the chill of water, the hush of the trees, and the presence of someone I trust completely.
Nature asks nothing of us here. And in that stillness, we are made whole.
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