In the endless country of grass, there’s a kingdom you could step over without ever knowing.
A handful of pale umbrellas stand quietly, barely taller than the blades that cradle them.
They have no idea they are small. No idea the world is bigger than this meadow they call home.
If you kneel down, the air changes. The horizon is green and thick, the sun filters through towers of grass, and these tiny mushrooms look like monuments. Here, in their moment, they matter completely.
But weeks from now, they’ll be gone. Their spore-dreams scattered, their caps dissolved into the soil. The grass will keep swaying, the sky will keep moving, and no one will even remember they were here.
That’s the secret the mushrooms share with us. In a few years—or a few hundred—we, too, will fade. The buildings we build, the words we speak, the names we love… all gone, swallowed by time.
And yet—today—we stand. We laugh. We love. We grow toward our own patch of sun.
Because our time isn’t less precious for being short. It’s precious because it is.
