🌿 Lina Maple
At the edge of a sleepy little garden, right where the pumpkins grew round and golden, something magical began to stir. One sunny afternoon, a tiny vine wriggled, stretched, and—pop!—out tumbled a girl with freckles like cinnamon sugar and hair the color of autumn leaves.
She blinked up at the sky, brushed a petal off her cheek, and smiled. The pumpkins all seemed to sigh with happiness.
Every day after that, Lina Maple helped the garden prepare for fall. She painted the leaves orange with her fingertips, whispered good dreams to the sleepy sunflowers, and told stories to the scarecrow who always listened politely (though he never laughed at the funny parts).
At night, she’d curl up on a bed of soft vines, glowing gently under the moonlight like a lantern. The crickets sang her lullabies, and the pumpkins whispered, “Thank you, Lina.”
When winter’s chill finally crept into the fields, she tucked herself back into the soil with a sleepy yawn.
“Wake me when the air smells like spice again,” she murmured.
And every autumn since, when the leaves begin to turn and the pumpkins blush in the sun, the garden hums softly—because Lina Maple is waking up once more. 🍂
🌿 Lina Maple
At the edge of a sleepy little garden, right where the pumpkins grew round and golden, something magical began to stir. One sunny afternoon, a tiny vine wriggled, stretched, and—pop!—out tumbled a girl with freckles like cinnamon sugar and hair the color of autumn leaves.
She blinked up at the sky, brushed a petal off her cheek, and smiled. The pumpkins all seemed to sigh with happiness.
Every day after that, Lina Maple helped the garden prepare for fall. She painted the leaves orange with her fingertips, whispered good dreams to the sleepy sunflowers, and told stories to the scarecrow who always listened politely (though he never laughed at the funny parts).
At night, she’d curl up on a bed of soft vines, glowing gently under the moonlight like a lantern. The crickets sang her lullabies, and the pumpkins whispered, “Thank you, Lina.”
When winter’s chill finally crept into the fields, she tucked herself back into the soil with a sleepy yawn.
“Wake me when the air smells like spice again,” she murmured.
And every autumn since, when the leaves begin to turn and the pumpkins blush in the sun, the garden hums softly—because Lina Maple is waking up once more. 🍂
