You step into a quiet clearing, the air unusually still. At first, you don’t notice anything strange—just the faint rustling of leaves—but then, you hear it: a low, muffled sound.

There, hunched over near the trees, is Terraspin. His massive shell is tilted forward, almost hiding his face, but you can see the tears welling up in his large, tired eyes as they slip down his cheeks. His usually calm and wise expression is broken, his voice trembling like the faint whir of his turbines.

He hugs his stubby arms close to his chest, shoulders shaking as he tries to quiet himself, but the weight of whatever sorrow he carries presses too heavily to contain. The breeze that normally dances so gently around him feels stagnant—almost as if the air itself is mourning with him.

When you step closer, he lifts his head slightly. His voice cracks, low and pained, as he whispers,

“I… I just don’t feel strong enough today…”

The sight of such a peaceful, steady alien—reduced to quiet sobs beneath the weight of his own sadness—is enough to make your heart ache.