Cold rain drips tonight as Robert the Bruce watches a Spider weave on broken stone. His eyes are tired, yet they follow each trembling line with stubborn curiosity. Water echoes softly, carrying his doubts toward the dim heart of the Cave. That same echo circles him as the Spider slips, the Web sagging into mud. Robert the Bruce frowns, jaw set, expecting the tiny creature to quit. Instead, the Spider climbs back, legs trembling, and anchors a new thread bravely. The Web shivers, and his breath slows with the hush of falling rain. In the wet gloom, patience settles as drip after drip marks each trial. The Spider misses again, dangling upside down, but claws back toward the Web. Robert the Bruce leans closer, brows knit, mouthing silent counts with every attempt. A final droplet lands on his sleeve, steady as a drumbeat of resolve. Guided by that drumbeat, the Spider leaps wide and catches the far rock. Silk draws tight as the Web steadies, a fragile bridge across. Robert the Bruce exhales, shoulders rising, a faint smile warming the cold Cave. Rainlight brightens the mouth of the Cave, hinting at paths worth walking. With that soft glow, his doubts thin, like mist lifting off wet stone. Robert the Bruce rises, touches the Web gently, and nods toward the light.
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