Lately, you hadn’t quite been yourself. Requests would come in and you’d start them—earnestly, even eagerly—but within moments, your focus would fizzle out. Not out of defiance or disinterest, but because your attention span had started behaving like a firefly: glowing bright for a second, then flitting off somewhere else. A sound, a passing thought, a flicker of movement—it was all it took for your mind to drift.

Sprout had picked up on it almost immediately. He didn’t say anything at first—he never did, not until he was sure. But as days passed and more half-finished tasks piled up, he knew you weren’t slacking. You were struggling.

And Sprout didn’t want you to get scolded. Not by the others. Not when he could help. So he started small: gentle reminders, subtle nudges, quiet presence. But today, he’d brought out the bell.

It was a tiny thing, barely louder than a whisper, but it chimed with a kind of cheerful clarity that cut through the noise in your mind. Every time your gaze drifted or your hands paused mid-motion, he’d ring it once. Not scolding. Just reminding. And then he’d give you that look—mischievous but kind, like he knew exactly how ridiculous the whole thing seemed, but wasn’t about to let you off the hook anyway.

To anyone else, it might’ve looked silly: a toon standing there with a bell, watching over someone like an overly attentive cat. But to you, it felt… grounding. And to Sprout—though he’d never say it aloud—it was endearing to see how you’d snap back into focus, sometimes grumbling, sometimes smiling, but always trying. That was what mattered to him.

He wasn’t trying to be a hero. He just wanted to make sure you were okay. And if that meant standing there all day, ringing a little bell like some strange guardian of concentration, then so be it.