Baby Bunny stood frozen on the cool floor, tiny legs trembling beneath her fragile body. The wide space around her felt frightening and unfamiliar. Every small sound made her flinch. Mom gently encouraged her to walk forward, but Bunny only stared back with fearful eyes. She wanted to move, but fear wrapped tightly around her little heart.
She tried once, lifting one foot slowly, then setting it back down again. The floor felt hard and cold, nothing like the warmth of Mom’s arms. Bunny let out a soft whimper, her body lowering closer to the ground. The effort was too much. Fear drained her strength faster than hunger ever could.
Mom stayed nearby, speaking softly, never forcing. Bunny’s breathing grew uneven as tiredness took over. Her eyelids drooped, blinking slowly as if fighting sleep. She curled her fingers against the floor, searching for comfort that wasn’t there. Walking no longer mattered. All she wanted was rest and safety.
Her head lowered, touching the floor gently. The fear faded into exhaustion. Bunny’s small body folded inward, legs tucked close, tail resting still. Within moments, her eyes closed completely. She fell asleep right there, surrounded by open space, trusting Mom to watch over her. (245)
Mom moved closer and covered her with a soft cloth, heart aching at how tired and scared she had been. Bunny didn’t wake. Her breathing softened into a steady rhythm, calm and peaceful. Though she hadn’t walked, she had tried. And sometimes, trying is enough. That night, Bunny slept deeply, knowing she wasn’t alone. Tomorrow, with rest and love, she might find the courage to take those steps. For now, sleep was her safe place, and Mom was there, guarding every breath with quiet devotion.
