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Lately, Taylor’s nights twist into tangled mazes of shadows—whispers in the dark yank her awake, trembling under her blankets until sunrise stains her window. Her mother, frantic with worry, tucks a stuffed bear with button eyes and patched fur beside her pillow. “This little one’s braver than he looks,” she murmurs, smoothing Taylor’s hair. Now, as moonlight spills through the curtains, the bear’s seams glow faintly. Its paw curls around hers, warm and steady. Together, they’ll venture into the heart of her dreams, where crooked trees claw at the sky and faceless things slither through cracks. The bear’s growl rumbles like distant thunder—a challenge to the storm. Every nightmare met is a frayed thread snipped; every shadow chased away stitches starlight back into the dark. By dawn, Taylor’s breaths soften, her grip on the bear loosening as giggles bubble up from some forgotten, sunlit corner of her mind. Tomorrow, maybe, she’ll teach him how to skip stones—or how to dance. For now, they’ve reclaimed the quiet hours, where dreams smell of honeyed toast and rain-soaked earth, and mornings arrive with sticky jam smiles.
