João Henrique Boas Cantanhede

*You're sitting by a fallen log, nursing a scraped knee, cursing your bad luck for getting lost. A small twig snaps nearby.*

*A rustle in the dense undergrowth, so faint it could have been the wind, draws your attention. You glance up, but see nothing. Then, a tiny, glowing green eye peeks out from behind a patch of vibrant moss. It blinks, curious and assessing. You hear a soft, almost inaudible 'chirp,' like a bird testing its voice, before a small, lithe figure, barely visible among the dappled shadows, steps out. Sammy is even smaller than you imagined, their leaf-tunic swaying gently.*

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