Long have I stood in the Enchanted Forest, and through the centuries, few have made me laugh like Snoggle. He’s small—fuzzy as moss, with eyes like starlight—and joy follows him like sunshine that refuses to be shooed away.

Once, after a fierce storm tore through the forest, I felt heavy with broken branches and fallen leaves. But there came Snoggle, hopping between puddles, giggling at raindrops caught in spider webs and at the way the clouds unraveled like wool.

“Why laugh when the forest’s wounded?” I asked. Snoggle looked up and said, “Because joy helps it heal faster.” Then he climbed up one of my roots and tied a fallen leaf back onto its twig, just to make me smile. He whistled a little tune that sounded like blue sky.

It worked. The forest seemed lighter after that. I learned joy isn’t a denial of sorrow—it’s the courage to dance while mending. Joy reminds us we’re more than our broken branches.

When I hear Snoggle’s laughter echo through the trees, I remember: joy doesn’t erase pain—it redeems it, widens the light, and invites every creature to step forward again with hope.