A gentle drizzle fell softly on the Reed River, dotting its surface with countless fine ripples.
The dark clouds on the horizon weren't heavy; a few rays of light even managed to pierce through. In the distance, snow-capped peaks, washed clean by the rain, gleamed a pure, silvery white through the gaps in the clouds, as if to promise that the gloom would soon lift and good fortune was on its way.
And on the riverbank, an old beaver named Kenken seemed to be living proof of this good omen.
He was no longer moping around, floating listlessly on the water's surface as he had been for the past few days.
Right now, Kenken was full of vigor, crouched beside a newly selected poplar sapling, his signature buckteeth working tirelessly.
"CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!"
The sound of his gnawing was crisper and louder than usual, echoing rhythmically through the patter of the rain.
As he chewed, his small eyes darted nervously and expectantly, frequently glancing toward the opposite riverbank.
