n a forest where time moved like a slow wind and the trees remembered every step, there lived a bear named Solan. His fur was dark as the shadow beneath pines, but his spirit shimmered with the colors of the setting sun.
Solan was known as The Last Lightbearer. According to ancient lore, the bear was born during the final sunset of a forgotten century, when the skies had burned gold and the earth whispered prophecies to the roots. Since then, he wandered alone—appearing only at dusk, always walking westward, always toward the light.
Wherever he passed, flowers grew—soft and golden. Birds circled above him like guardians. Even the wind would still, as if listening.
It was said that Solan was searching—not for food or shelter, but for the last ember of the sun itself. An ember that could rekindle the warmth in hearts gone cold, in forests scorched by fire, in souls that had forgotten how to dream.
Elders taught children to stay still if they saw him. To watch. To feel. To remember.
For Solan reminded the people of a truth carried in pawprints and petals:
That light isn’t only above us. Sometimes, it walks beside us.
