Loveland Frogman cleared his throat and began his tale to a cluster of dragonflies hovering near the water's edge. His webbed hands moved through the air, painting pictures of ancient things that rose from deep below. The dragonflies scattered before he reached the good part. He sighed and tucked his cloak tighter. Someday his stories would reach beyond these muddy banks, beyond creatures with short attention spans. He would find listeners who stayed until the end. That night, he dreamed of a place where people gathered just to hear stories. He woke with the image clear in his mind—wooden walls, simple tables, the smell of hot drinks in the air. A place built for listening. Three days later, he stood in front of the Swampside Cafe. The structure rose from the ground on thick posts, its wooden beams already weathered by moisture. Inside, mismatched chairs surrounded rough-cut tables. Loveland ran his webbed fingers along the worn counter and smiled. This was it. His orange eyes grew wide as he imagined the seats filled with listeners, all waiting to hear what he knew. Here, his tales about the Moth Prophet and Old Gristleback would finally reach ears that cared. Here, the ancient fragments he carried would spread like ripples across water. He hung his cloak by the door and began arranging the chairs.

Loveland opened the cafe door at dawn, his webbed feet slapping against the wooden floor. The empty chairs stared back at him. He needed to learn how to bring people in, how to make them want to stay. He practiced his opening lines, testing different voices and gestures. Too loud scared the crickets outside. Too soft put a sleeping toad to sleep even deeper. He adjusted his cloak and tried again, this time letting his excitement show naturally. His orange eyes brightened as he found his rhythm. By midday, he had his first real story ready—one about the Moth Prophet and the dust patterns that predicted rain. He set out a chair for himself and one for his first guest. Tomorrow, he would begin inviting them in. The sun dropped below the trees, and the air turned cold. Loveland walked outside and studied the empty space near the cafe. People wouldn't stay if they froze. He gathered vibrant cushions from inside and arranged them in a circle on the ground. In the center, he built a campfire with dry wood he'd been saving. The flames crackled to life, pushing warmth into the cool evening. He sat on one of the cushions and felt the heat on his green skin. This spot would work. When visitors came, they could sit here after dark and listen to his tales without shivering. The fire would keep them close, keep them comfortable. He added another log and watched sparks dance toward the darkening sky. His cafe was ready now.