Story
Bobabirb waves its clumsy little hands to greet an old friend: the beam above its bed. The wood grain is its companion's "language," elegant and unhurried, telling stories night after night. Tonight, in the beam's patterns, Bobabirb sees summer breezes over reeds, a knight plucking a lute on the riverbank, a song drifting as rain outside a princess's window. The beam is well-read, its tales ever-changing, a companion of Bobabirb through the long nights. Prone to insomnia from too much milk tea, Bobabirb finds its round body makes it hard to rise or turn, so all it can do is stare at the ceiling beam, which only deepens the pain of sleepless nights. Fortunately, it doesn't seem bored.
