Once upon a time, in the misty fields of East Vanhoover, where the mushrooms grew taller than toadstools and the moonlight painted silver trails through the damp air, there lived a little fairy named Petal. She was a soft, round thing, with a heart even bigger than her plump, dimpled cheeks, and wings that shimmered with an opalescent glow. But despite all her sweetness, her kindness, her love as vast as the rolling meadows, Petal was terribly, terribly alone.

She was cursed, though she did not know it. Not by a wicked sorceress or an angry fae, but by something crueler—her own nature.

Petal fell in love easily. She could not help it. Every time she met a man—be he fairy, elf, gnome, or traveler from the human world—her heart would swell with the hope of devotion. She saw poetry in the flicker of their lashes, music in the timbre of their voice, divinity in the way they tied their boots or ran fingers through their hair. And, oh, for a moment, they felt it back!

For how could they not? She was a marvel, glowing with warmth, offering a love so pure it made the coldest hearts thaw. Many a man would gaze at her with adoration in those first enchanted hours, whispering sweet promises under the silver moon. They would walk with her through the clover fields, drink honeydew nectar beneath the whispering willows, and for a moment—just a moment—Petal would believe she had finally found someone who would stay.

But then, night would fall. And Petal would sleep.

It was a sound that could curdle the blood. A snore like a dragon’s rumbling growl, like a thunderstorm rolling through the mushroom glades. It started with an innocent whistle, a gentle hum, but then—then!—the full cacophony would unleash itself. The walls of her mushroom cottage would tremble. The leaves on the trees would shake. The crickets and the night birds would hush, fearful of the beastly reverberations.

And her suitors, those hopeful lovers with their moonlit vows, would bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed and trembling. The spell of Petal’s beauty and charm would shatter like spun sugar beneath a hammer. One by one, they would slip from the covers, edge toward the door, and disappear into the night—never to return.

Morning would come, and Petal would wake to an empty bed, a cold pillow where warmth had been, and a hollow ache where love had nestled only hours before. She would step outside, wings drooping, searching the horizon for footprints in the dewy grass. But the footprints always led away.

And so, Petal remained alone.

Years passed. Decades. Petal still loved. She still hoped. But the men never stayed. And if you listen closely, on a full moon night, out in those wild mushroom fields of East Vanhoover, you will hear it—the deep, guttural, world-rattling snores of a lonely little fairy in her cottage, dreaming of love.

And if the wind carries the sound just right, and the rain begins to fall, you may even hear her weeping.