In the hush of morning’s amber light,
Quinn padded soft on paws of white,
Past shadowed walls and whispered floors,
To where the old glass held its doors.
The mirror hummed a silver gleam,
A portal stitched with threads of dream.
He stepped in close, heart ticking loud,
Tail a soft flag, head slightly bowed.
But what he saw was not his frame
No floppy ears, no golden name.
Reflected back with burning eyes,
a lion stood, immense and wise
Its mane was dusk set all ablaze,
Like wildfire in the forest haze.
Its breath a thunder, low and deep,
It woke the winds from ancient sleep.
The lion blinked—and Quinn did too,
As if the beast inside he knew.
He smelled the musk of jungle rain,
Felt earth beneath, not house or lane.
The rustle of the leaves was near,
The pulse of prey, the scent of fear.
He heard a distant, booming roar
Not bark, but something rooted more.
Yet all the while, his fur stayed gold,
His nose still damp, his stare still bold.
For mirrors, true, show what may be,
The soul beneath what eyes can see.
And so he sat, both beast and friend,
A lion-dog with heart to lend.
Not just a pet, but fierce and bright
A guardian wrapped in morning light.
Stories Past Present Future 