Baby Acorn stood at the base of the oak tree, his cap still dusty from the long trip home. The Easter Bunny had called him brave, but the word felt heavy now. His parents were up there, somewhere above him on the treehouse deck, and he had been gone for days. He climbed the ladder slowly, his legs shaking. At the top, he saw the railing first. The pine boards were weathered and smooth where hands had gripped them. Mama Acorn stood near the edge, stirring a large pot of stew for the neighbors. Papa Acorn leaned against the rail, one foot on the bottom board, laughing at something someone said. Baby Acorn counted the steps between them and the drop. One step. Maybe two. In his pocket, he felt the strip of yellow tape with black letters. He had torn it from the windstorm barrier at Storyland. It was proof he had been there, proof he had seen danger and survived it. But his parents were leaning over the railing now, calling down to someone below. His chest went tight. He moved closer, two steps behind Papa Acorn, close enough to grab his arm if he needed to. The celebration continued around him. The stew smelled rich and warm. Neighbors praised his courage, patted his head, called him a hero. But Baby Acorn stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on the railing. He had saved them once during the storm, pulling them back when the wind roared. Now he was home, and nothing had changed. They still stood too close. And he was still the only one watching.