The Case of the Vanishing Pecan

It started just after dawn,

when the wind carried whispers that someone

was stealing the bakery scraps before the crows even had a chance to argue.

Buster knew the signs.

The twitchy pine-branch. The oddly re-folded paper napkin.

And worst of all—a single pecan,

half-bitten, but… warm.

Still warm.

That wasn’t a snack.

That was a message.

He adjusted his monocle. Flipped open the briefcase.

Inside: one glowing cheese cube,

a folded maple path labeled “shortcut (ish),”

and today’s mission card:

“If it’s still warm, it wasn’t meant to be taken.”

Buster set off through the dew-slick fence line,

pausing only to salute a robin with suspicious breadcrumbs on her beak.

By the time he reached the feeder clearing,

the culprits were gone.

But they’d left behind a trail—giggle-root glyphs carved into the bark,

not meant to deceive,

but to distract.

He sniffed.

Not mimic.

Not ac@rn.

Just kids.

Baby squirrels playing spy and trying to be brave like him.

He left a note:

“Good form. Terrible timing. Never eat while fleeing.”

Then he tucked the pecan under the Giggle Tree roots,

whispered to the orchard to hold it safe,

and climbed back to his perch.

Mission complete.

No corruption.

No mimic seeds.

Just a case of big dreams and small teeth.

Buster smiled.

Sometimes guarding the orchard meant letting joy misstep—

and gently helping it try again.