When I was younger, I had a recurring dream of galloping through woodlands and fields on a white pony—always in the dark, guided by moonlight. Sometimes I was running from a shadow being, but the dream felt endless.

Ironically, I grew up with white ponies. We would spend hours riding without a care in the world. I’d chat to Ranger as we went about the lanes, sometimes bringing snacks for both of us—Pom-Bears were a favourite.

I don’t remember my dreams as often now, and when I do, they rarely involve a little white pony.

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