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Juan Gallardo

In a quiet valley surrounded by forests and wildflowers, there lived a creature named Tov. He was big, soft, and slow-moving, with warm eyes and a peaceful smile. His horns curved like crescent moons, and his hooves barely made a sound when he walked.

Tov rarely spoke. Not because he couldn’t — but because he chose his words with care. He never gossiped. He never mocked. He never raised his voice, even when others did.

The other creatures of the valley didn’t understand him at first. “Why doesn’t he say what he thinks?” whispered the squirrels. “He’s hiding something,” grumbled the foxes. “Quiet ones always are.”

But Tov said nothing in return. If he heard something cruel, he let it pass like wind through trees. When asked for his opinion, he paused, thought, and answered with kindness — or not at all.

Then came the season of drought. Food grew scarce, tempers ran high, and old arguments returned like smoke. One animal blamed another. Rumors spread. Small fights turned into loud feuds.

“You hoarded berries!”

“You told lies!”

“You cursed our luck!”

Voices rose. Friendships broke. Even families turned against each other.

But Tov stayed calm. He gathered what food he could and shared it silently. When others shouted, he simply listened. And when he spoke, he reminded them:”Blame won’t fill your belly. But gentleness might fill your heart.”

At first, no one listened. But little by little, they noticed something. Tov’s words never made things worse. They never caused fear, or shame, or anger.

They made people breathe.

They made people pause. They made people remember what it felt like to feel safe. One by one, the creatures returned to him — tired of shouting, tired of hurting each other. They asked how he stayed so kind. He only smiled and said,

“You don’t have to say everything you feel. But you should always mean everything you say.”

From then on, the valley changed. Not all at once. But when the winds stirred, when anger rose, the creatures remembered Tov — the one who spoke gently, or not at all.

They remembered the verse the elders once taught but had forgotten:

“Do not go about as a talebearer among your people…”
Leviticus 19:16

Tov had lived it without ever quoting it. And because of that, they loved him.

Because his tongue was soft, his heart stayed strong, and his words, when spoken, were always a blessing.

Juan Gallardo

In the high meadows lived a large, clumsy creature named Bramblehorn. With shaggy fur and antlers like tree branches, he was always knocking things over—but never meant harm. He just wanted to help.

He brought too much water to wilting crops, knocked over trees while trying to save one, and once sneezed so hard he ruined a wedding cake. Still, villagers grew fond of him. Children braided flowers into his fur. He stood guard over sheep at night and left herbs for the sick.

When a forest fire broke out, Bramblehorn didn’t run. He walked into the flames, broke a clearing, and stopped the fire’s path. Afterward, singed and tired, he lay down in a field while people gathered to thank him.

From then on, when he knocked over a cart or sat on a fence, the villagers just smiled and said, “There goes Bramblehorn.” Because even with clumsy hooves and wild sneezes, his heart was the gentlest in the land.

Juan Gallardo

In the forest beyond the mountains, where tall trees whispered and the wind carried the scent of moss and pine, lived a creature named Obu.

He was large — towering, really — with shaggy black fur like midnight fog and eyes as round and wide as full moons. His horns curved high, and his smile, though soft and honest, unnerved people.

But what truly startled them was his laugh. It was loud. Deep. Rolling like thunder through the trees. He laughed often — not at anyone, just at the rustling of birds, or the way leaves danced in the wind. But villagers heard it and shivered. They said it sounded wrong — too big, too bold. “That’s not a kind laugh,” they whispered. “That’s a beast’s howl.”

So they called him names. Said he brought misfortune. Warned children to hide if they heard his footsteps or that echoing laugh through the trees. Obu heard it all. And yet, he never answered with anger. Instead, he moved gently through the woods.

He plucked herbs for healers when they ran out. He stood still as a boulder during windstorms, shielding homes without a word. He left bunches of berries beside broken windows or sagging doors.

Never seen. Never thanked. But still, they judged him. “He’s not like us,” some muttered. “That grin. That coat. That laugh.” “That kind always causes trouble.” They never said what kind they meant. But Obu understood.

Still, he never turned bitter. He kept laughing, softly, into the treetops. He knew they feared his sound, but it was the only voice he had — and it had never meant harm.

Then came the flood. A week of rain turned the river wild. The banks broke. Water surged through the valley, fast and merciless. Crops vanished. Trees toppled. People scrambled for shelter. In the chaos, a child was swept away. No one saw where they went — except Obu. He dove into the current without hesitation. His body fought the river’s pull. His horns cut through the waves.

When he returned, scratched and soaked, he held the child above the water with great care. The villagers stood frozen. The wind was quiet. Even the trees seemed to hold their breath. And then — as the child reached their mother’s arms — Obu laughed. A low, thunderous sound, full of joy and relief. The same laugh they once feared. But now… it didn’t feel scary. It felt warm.

After that, things changed. Children no longer ran when they saw him. They waved. And he laughed — always loud, always honest. When berries appeared on windowsills, people smiled instead of locking their doors. The healers left thank-you bundles under trees.

And when Obu passed through town, someone always said, “Let him be. That’s Obu. He’s a good one.” “If you’re ever lost,” parents told their children, “look for Obu. He’ll see you first.” Because he always had.

And in time, they began to understand:

You must judge your fellow with justice — not by what you see, not by how they sound, but by what they do.

Obu had always known that. Now, they did too.

Juan Gallardo Juan Gallardo

In the wide desert where stars speak and the earth sleeps in silence, lives a creature no one remembers by name — but all things feel.

They call him the Watcher.

Not because he is fearful… but because he has learned.

His ears flick at the rustle of memory.
His eyes move with the moon.
His head turns, always gently, always scanning — not for danger alone, but for truth.

He remembers what it means to be hunted.
He remembers what it means to be loved, then forgotten.
And he remembers the cost of not paying attention.

So he watches.
He watches the wind carve ancient patterns in the sand.
He watches the cacti hold water like secrets.
He watches the moonrise like it’s a long-lost friend.

Some think he is paranoid.
But really, he is devoted.

Because someone must stay awake.
Someone must remember.
Someone must keep the fire lit, even if it’s only in their chest.

And though he looks alone, he is never lonely.
Because every glance, every twitch, every silent breath…

is a prayer.
A story.
A shield.

He is not just watching the world.
He is guarding its soul.