Mura was born in a quiet river cove, where the water flowed so gently it mirrored the sky. From the very beginning, she moved slowly and listened more than she spoke. While others splashed and raced through the reeds, Mura would float, paws tucked close, eyes watching dragonflies trace lines through the air.
As a young cub, Mura often felt overwhelmed by loud voices and rushing plans. One day, during the Festival of First Steps, she was meant to lead the parade. The crowd buzzed around her. Colours clashed. Instruments clanged. Mura froze. She stepped back, found a patch of grass by the river, and simply breathed.
The world did not stop, but it softened. The sound of her breath became her anchor. A nearby child sat beside her without a word. Then another. Soon the whole parade paused—not in panic, but in peace. That stillness became the true beginning of the festival.
From then on, Mura was known as the one who could bring calm when things spun too fast. She taught young ones how to close their eyes and listen to the birds, how to chew slowly during breakfast, how to name what they felt without rushing to fix it. She helped them see that even a moment spent noticing a floating petal could change the rhythm of an entire day.
Mura carries a bracelet of river stones, each one linked to a moment she stayed present through difficulty. Her shawl carries the scent of early rain and her voice moves like slow wind through tall grass.
She does not lead loudly, but wherever she walks, others seem to breathe a little deeper.
Now, when someone says “I don’t know what to do,” and their paws fidget or their voice shakes, Mura sits beside them and waits. Not to fix. Not to change. Just to be. Because in that quiet space, answers often arrive all on their own.