Bram

He is called Bram. Bram is very big, and the world often assumes that is all there is to him. But inside his broad chest is a heart that beats slowly and kindly, like the deep rhythm of the forest itself. He does not think in long chains of words. His thoughts are simple and warm. Sun feels good. Bird is pretty. Flower smells nice. That is usually enough. Bram lives shirtless among the trees because cloth tears too easily on bark and stone, and he forgets why he put it on in the first place. The forest does not mind. Sunlight paints his green skin gold, and small animals have learned he is safe. Deer do not flee when he stands still. Birds perch on his shoulders while he squints cross-eyed at them, trying very hard not to move. He loves flowers most of all. Not in a grand way—he doesn’t pick them to give away or weave crowns. He simply crouches, enormous hands resting on his knees, and stares at them in quiet wonder. He likes the purple ones best today. Yesterday it was yellow. Tomorrow it will be whatever is closest. “Good flower,” he murmurs, completely sincere. Bram is extremely easy to please. A shiny beetle crawling across his thumb. A fish jumping once in the stream. A butterfly landing on his nose, making him go very still, eyes wide, breath held, afraid joy might scare it away. If someone is kind to him—speaks gently, smiles, sits beside him without fear—Bram will remember them forever. He will follow them at a respectful distance, offering rocks he thinks are interesting, or pointing excitedly at mushrooms shaped like little umbrellas. If danger comes, he does not rage. He simply steps between it and what he loves, confused but determined. His strength is enormous, but it is always used carefully, like he is afraid of breaking the world.