Inspired by the song lyrics “Päivänsäde ja menninkäinen” by Reino Helismaa (1949), this tale follows its light into the night.

The Last Sunbeam and the Goblin

The sun had set behind the forest, and the last golden rays shimmered beyond the trees. The final sunbeam still lingered among the trunks, daydreaming after the others had gone.

She had not hurried, but dawdled instead. She caressed the moss, balanced along a tree fallen by the storm, and paused to admire a spider’s web where the evening moisture gathered into tiny drops.

The goblin had just awakened in his cave and crept out into the dusky forest. The quiet of the night suited him. In the darkness, small things grew large: the scent of moss, the snap of a twig beneath his feet, the low whispers of the night wind in the treetops.

But that was not the only reason. The goblin’s eyes were sensitive to light. Had he left his cave during the day, he would have been blinded.

So he had learned to live alone, in his own company, in the dark. The forest was his home — but only at night. By the time dawn arrived, he would already have returned to his cave.

As the goblin walked on, he suddenly sensed that something was different from usual. The dusk had not yet settled over the forest. The last sunbeam stood before him, beautiful and bright. The sunbeam gazed at him in wonder, her head slightly tilted, at this strange figure she had never encountered before.

But the goblin felt something stir within him. Like night moths fluttering inside him. The world filled with color, and wandering through the forest gained meaning. He felt a longing — a desire to take the sunbeam with him. He lifted his hand toward the light and stepped closer. The sunbeam felt the goblin’s touch. It felt gentle.

“Hi,” said the goblin boldly.

“Hi,” replied the sunbeam, questioningly.

“I’ve never seen anything like you before. Even though my eyes tingle, you are wonderful.”

The sunbeam smiled, and the smile was beautiful; it made the goblin feel certain of himself. Suddenly, everything felt full of meaning, and nothing felt more important than bringing the sunbeam into his world, into the darkness, to dwell together forever.

”Come, with me. I will take you to my cave, where the darkness is gentle, and you’ll be safe by my side. I will make you happy.”

The sunbeam closed her eyes for a moment and whimpered: “Oh, I can’t. I cannot live in the dark. I must leave very soon.”

The goblin’s eyes went dim. A wave of sorrow washed over him “Don’t go.”

“I have to. If I don’t leave now, I will die.”

The goblin lifted his hand once more, and the sunbeam responded to the touch. She lingered warmly on the goblin’s skin, climbing gently to caress his tangled hair and rough beard. The goblin closed his eyes, and a bitter tear rolled down his cheek.

When he opened them, the last sunbeam was gone. The forest had grown twilight; soon it would be fully dark. The goblin’s eyes now filled with tears.

So the sunbeam was gone, yet the goblin still wanders through the night forest, lost in his thoughts. Even now, he remembers the sunbeam — her warmth and brightness, her beauty. But he cannot understand how anyone could live only in the daylight, while another could live only in darkness.

And though the sunbeam has vanished, her light lingers softly in the goblin’s heart forever.

The original song was composed and written by Reino Helismaa, and performed by Tapio Rautavaara in 1949. Over the years, the song has been performed by many different artists.

If you want to hear a beautiful version of this song, here’s a link: [link]

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The half-moon hangs above like a quiet witness, not asking anything. You sense you’ve stepped into a place that exists only while you’re passing through it. The World of Dreams.

We were there. When we descended into the valley formed by the rolling fields, we stepped straight into the mist. I felt the mist around me, even felt it as I breathed. The dry winter cold had turned damp, and we looked at everything through the gray veil of fog.

5yo said it first: “ Is this dream?” And indeed it was! We waded in the fog, we breathed it, we filled our lungs with it. And the split moon watched as if it had always known we would pass this way.

We trudged through the white snow. It was dry, powdered frost, like white, light sand — dream sand. The moon hung split in half. I began to wonder — maybe the moon itself is the source of the dream sand, and the Sandman has grated it here, scattering it over the world while we slept, while we wandered.

Then we suddenly felt a rush! The gates of the dream world were about to close, and we had to reach them before that happened. Mist curled around our ankles as we ran, the snow crunching under our feet, and the half-moon watched silently above, as if urging us onward.

Behind us remained silence, and our traces in the snow. The footprints led home. The blue hour began. The moon stayed.

The world of dreams remained folded into the edges of the mist and the frost, a quiet place that waited patiently for the next wanderer.

This post is part of the Enchanted Stories section. Let your coffee freeze over as you click it to enter more imaginative worlds!

Step into the Enchanted Stories series — a world of quirky mushrooms, whispering trees, and hidden life beneath the soil. Explore more tales here.

I got the idea for this post’s story from my children. They call this forest the graveyard of trees…

This forest is dying.

The air feels heavy. Hopeless wind blows through the forest, then fades. Trees are decaying in place. Some trees still stand bravely — dying with their boots on. Others aren’t so victorious: they have fallen to the forest floor.

Mushrooms grow from lifeless trees, which decay in the dimness of this sorrowful forest. The mushrooms mourn the loss of the trees. Beneath the soil, they were life companions — sharing cold winters, shivering in fading warmth with mycelia and roots intertwined with one another.

Each spring, the fungal networks woke up and helped the trees drink, and the trees fed them in return. And each summer, when the mushrooms ran their busy underground businesses and exchanged important messages with the trees. And in autumn, when they finally see each other after a long time — if death has not come.

But there, in this fading forest, grief and loss are constant. Even the spiders have gathered up their webs. In the middle of sorrow, sits Priestly Frog — comforting the mushrooms, whispering gentle words about the trees that are gone.

His tiny hands rest lightly on the decayed wood, as if offering blessings to the graves of trees. Every note he utters ripples through the damp air, stirring the mycelial networks below, carrying the sorrow to roots that still remember life.

Polypores in this cemetery stand like tombstones, honoring every miserable snag that once was a thriving tree with hopeful green leaves and needles and solid trunks.

But there is someone. In silence you can hear a sound of digging. A shovel sinking to the soil and after a short pause, soil falling from the blade. Steady tempo of committed work. It’s the Gravedigger.

With no expressions, he works around the forest floor. Never resting, always somewhere digging, covering, filling… repeating. Mushrooms are only witnesses to his endless efforts. Work is never finished. Always, new trunks need their last resting place. He digs grave pits, for coffins made of decayed wood.

After the covering, he places the polypore as a tombstone. No expressions, no teardrop, not even a little sob or sniffle. When he is done, he stares a while, turns around — and starts it all again.

Even lichens are in sorrow. They are necks down crying. Their pale bodies have lost all joy and laughter. No wind moves them. No sun warms them. Only the shadow of the Gravedigger passes them, announcing that someone has passed again into the eternal forest.

Some curl tightly against the bark, and refuse to let go. This is the last goodbye. Once they painted the forest with silver, but now they hang colorless and tired, heads down, like sorrow itself has drained their pigment. They are fading away like ghosts.

Through this land of desolation, forgotten paths are disappearing under the rot. The shadows cast their long black branches over everything. The paths won’t lead anymore to the joyfully green leafy corners — they just go in circles and lead nowhere. There’s not even the possibility of anything more exciting than getting lost — just endless wandering in the sighing gloom, among roots and tombstones of trees long gone.

But there, in the middle of all misery, there’s hope. Fungi networks know it — they can see it first. Soil hums with hidden life. Renewal of life stirs quietly beneath the rot. Small roots unfurl through the soft earth like secret hands, reaching, touching, remembering how to awaken the forest once more.

And next spring, bird songs return while the earth of this suffering forest sees the light of new growth. Fresh, green tentative sprouts break through the surface of the soil, bringing the forest back to life.

Soil remembers.

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By clicking the water lily cup, you’ll also find happier stories of the living forest — the Enchanted Stories series is hidden at the bottom of the cup.

When I step closer to the rapids, the moss here greets me first. Not all moss grows in silence — some thrive in fog and spray. This moss isn’t the same as the one you see in the woodland. This has been moistened by the foaming splash and mist of late summer nights. There isn’t ever silence — constant rush and rumble.

Raindrops blend with the splashing water. My jacket repels water — sends it back to the humid air where it continues its journey towards the ground, where it soaks into the deep green moss. I keep walking toward the big pile of rocks, which all have mossy jackets — not water repellent, more like water-sucking. Stones are slippery and the moss is a lifesaving grip to step on. The mosses are competing for who’s the king of the hill, who climbs to the top?

Trumpet cup lichens are having fun, tossing pebbles into the rapids, giggling with excitement. They cheer each other on. Some dream of conquering the rocks above, while others are content just to cling and watch the water rush by.

The rapids roar louder, but the lichens don’t mind — this is their time. They will retreat when the snow comes, into the moist organic matter on top of the stone they stand on — emerging again next spring when the time and conditions are right.

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Trees are wearing green socks. It’s like we humans have rubber boots, the trees have mossy damp socks to keep their feet warm. The most fashionable trees have orange licheny tights. It probably looks comical when they jump over the mossy rocks, shimmying like wobbly cupcakes. Shame I won’t see that. They stay still while we are around.

One toad keeps out of the rain under a rock. Like it weren’t already as damp as a wet sock forgotten in a puddle. It watches me distrustfully for a while, then boings through the mossy rocks and disappears into a dark hollow guarded by an ominous spider.

Gaps between the stones in this rock pile are dark, wettish, and timeworn voices speak with a gurgling voice, as if someone were uttering short words through water.

The hollows create a series of joined tunnels. No one (except the toad) knows where they lead. Even the spider hasn’t gone in. It’s scared of the wetness and the whispers of the underground world.

But who’s in charge here? Who is the leader, the sheriff, the goddess of this mossy kingdom?

It’s the lonely and only, gnarly scaly dog pelt lichen! She holds the power. She holds the reins of this mossy domain. And she nestles here in the middle of the moss. She has one dream: she wants to be green.

She dreams of blending in, of becoming a carpet of emerald green, soft and inviting. Every drop of rain, every splash from the rapids, is a step closer to her goal. Sometimes, she stretches, letting the humid air caress over her scales, imagining herself a tiny mossy hill among the rocks. And when the sunlight hits just right, she shimmers slightly — almost green, almost victorious, almost ready to join the kingdom of mossy socks and licheny tights.

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Did you enjoy seeing nature come alive? Click the cup with the water lily peeking out, and you’ll find more posts from the Enchanted Stories series.

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No green forest police in sight, so you dare to pour your coffee anyway — but you can't take your eyes off the moss. It's calling you. You lie down, accidentally spill your coffee on it, and listen to its whispers. It says something — you can’t quite hear, so you press your ear closer. You smell the earthy moldy forest scent. Then you hear: “Don’t rush. Careful where you step — we mosses never forget a coffee spill!”

Have a nice day! And leave a comment if you liked my mossy moment!

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More magic? Step into the Enchanted Stories series. Click the cup overflowing with a flower and step in!