Once upon a time, in the heart of the Enchanted Forest where fireflies danced like tiny lanterns, there lived a kind boy named David. His cottage stood at the edge of Whispering Brook, where the water giggled over smooth, round pebbles. The air always smelled of warm honey cakes, fresh from the oven of Mrs. Badger next door.

David was big now—big enough to climb the Twisty Oak without help, big enough to carry a basket of mushrooms without dropping a single one. But sometimes, when the moon shone extra bright and the forest hummed with crickets singing *cree-cree-cree*, David would wake up to something... squishy.

One morning, he sat up in bed, his toes wiggling in something cold and damp. *Splosh.* His heart did a little flip-flop. "Oh no," he whispered, kicking off his blanket. The sheets felt like a soggy sandwich left in the rain. The room smelled faintly of soap and something else—something like the brook after a storm. He tiptoed to the window, where the morning sun painted golden stripes on the floor. Outside, a robin chirped *tweet-tweet-tweee!* as if laughing.

David’s cheeks burned hotter than a dragon’s sneeze. He stuffed the wet sheets into his laundry basket, but—*BONK!*—he tripped over his own feet, sending the basket flying. Socks, shirts, and one very confused teddy bear tumbled out like popcorn in a pan. *Plop! Plop! Plop!*

"I’m too big for this," David muttered, stomping his foot. The floorboards groaned under him, sounding like an old bear waking up from a nap. He grabbed his favorite sweater—the one as soft as a cloud—and pulled it over his head. Maybe if he ignored it, the problem would disappear like magic.

That night, David decided to be extra careful. He drank only one sip of water before bed. He visited the outhouse *twice* (just to be sure). He even stacked three pillows under his blanket to make a "fortress of dryness." But when the moon rose, round and glowing like a giant cheese wheel, the crickets sang louder, and—*drip-drip*—David felt that familiar chill.

This time, he didn’t hide the sheets. Instead, he marched to Mrs. Badger’s cottage, where the scent of cinnamon and baked apples wrapped around him like a hug. The old badger was stirring a pot of stew, her wooden spoon going *clink-clank* against the sides. "Well, hello there, David!" she said, her nose twitching. "You smell like... laundry day."

David’s shoulders slumped. "I had another accident," he said, his voice smaller than a mouse’s squeak. Mrs. Badger didn’t laugh. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Instead, she handed him a warm biscuit, crumbly as a sandcastle in the sun. "Happens to the best of us," she said. "Even my nephew Benny once wet the bed. Do you know what he did?"

David shook his head, taking a bite of the biscuit. It tasted like sunshine and sugar.

"He tried *everything*. Special drinks, silly dances, even sleeping upside down like a bat!" Mrs. Badger chuckled. "But you know what worked? Time. And a little patience. One day, it just... stopped."

David frowned. "But what if it doesn’t stop for me?"

Mrs. Badger ruffled his hair, her paws rough like tree bark. "Then we’ll try something new. Maybe a nightlight shaped like a star? Or a stuffed dragon to guard your bed?" She leaned in, her whiskers tickling his ear. "The forest doesn’t give up on its creatures, David. And neither should you."

That night, David placed a tiny lantern by his bed. Its light flickered like a firefly’s glow, and the shadows danced on the walls. He snuggled under a fresh, crisp sheet—dry as a desert—and listened to the brook’s lullaby. *Splash... gurgle... splash...*

Weeks passed. Some nights were dry. Some nights... weren’t. But David didn’t hide the sheets anymore. He even told his friend Oliver the Owl about it, who hooted, "Hoo-hoo! Even the mightiest trees start as tiny seeds!" (Oliver loved dramatic sayings.)

Then, one evening, as the fireflies blinked *on-off-on-off* like tiny stars, David woke up to something new. The air smelled of pine needles and dew. His sheets were... *dry*. Not a single damp spot. He pinched himself—*ouch!*—just to be sure. Then he grinned so wide his cheeks hurt.

He ran to Mrs. Badger’s cottage, his bare feet *pitter-patter* on the path. "It worked!" he shouted, waving his arms. "I did it!" Mrs. Badger was outside, hanging laundry on a line. The sheets flapped in the breeze like happy flags. She turned, her eyes crinkling with a smile. "Told you," she said. "Patience is like planting a seed. You water it, you wait... and one day, *poof!* A flower."

David hugged her tight, breathing in the scent of lavender and fresh air. That night, he slept soundly, his dreams as light as dandelion fluff. And when he woke up, the sun was shining, the birds were singing *la-la-la*, and his bed was dry as a bone. The Enchanted Forest cheered for him, even if no one could hear it. Because sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is keep trying—even when the puddles seem endless.

The end.