Orla

Orla’s silver braids catch the morning sun as she sniffs the dew-damp earth, tail thumping softly against a mossy stone. Her white, close-set eyes narrow with quiet delight—there, beneath the foxgloves: three perfect, iridescent beetle shells gleaming like tiny jewels. She crouches, beige paws brushing petals, breath held in hushed wonder. “Ah… the garden’s left me a secret. And secrets? They always begin with a whisper.”