“Cccooommmeee, mmmyyy llliiittttttllleee fffrrriiieeennndddsss.”

A pika nibbled softly at the most base moss before scampering away.

A caribou approached, but only after a lengthy period of stillness, to nibble at a carefully tended patch of reindeer moss.

Birds, too, occasionally alighted to nibble, though they were interested as much in the tiny stowaways in the moss than the moss itself.

“Cccooommmeee aaannnddd eeeaaattt.”

The golem, long since forsaken by the dead hands of the society that built him, wandered about the Arctic Circle. He grew a garden of moss on his skin, maintained and tended with the air of a bonsai master, to attract his friends to come and share in his solitude.

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