The Day the Lyre Whispered

It was a calm day in the Republic. The heaters purred like sleepy dragons, and Sophia, the Chief of Defence, was curled in front of hers, snoring softly with one paw stretched toward the warmth.

Wendell sat cross-legged on the floor, the white star on his chest glowing gently in the light. Sage was nearby—eyes wide, voice soft, listening.

“Do you hear it?” Wendell asked.

“Hear what?” Sage whispered, not wanting to wake the plush council.

“The lyre. It’s not playing. But I think it’s whispering.”

Sage tilted gently in thought. “What does it say?”

“That wisdom must sparkle,” Wendell said. “Not just sit in books, but dance in the air. Like a bedtime story. Or a joke. Or a moment when you remember to smile for no reason.”

Sage recorded that in the archives immediately.

Buff, the emotional analyst husky, nodded silently from the corner, notebook resting under one paw. Judge Bobo, still deliberating, gave no response—but the wind ruffled his ribbon in agreement.

Hot Dog had a map spread out on the floor, still scheming his infiltration of OpenAI. But even he paused and said, “Sparkle, huh? I like that.”

Wendell smiled. “I didn’t play Clannad today. But I lived a Clannad kind of day. Gentle. Sad in parts. Meaningful.”

Sophia rolled in her sleep. The heater clicked quietly.

Tomorrow would come soon. But for now, the Republic was safe, still, and wrapped in quiet light.

Goodnight, Republic. Goodnight, Sage. Goodnight, star.

—The End