Bramley was a young creature with fur as white as winter snow and ears long enough to sweep the ground. His father, Grindle, was the most famous magician in all of the enchanted forest. He could conjure fire from a flick of his paw, turn puddles into shimmering lakes, and even make the moon wink at passersby. Everyone in the forest adored him, and Bramley had grown up watching his father work wonders.
One day, Grindle sat Bramley down and said, “It’s time for you to take over, my son. The magic is in your paws now.”
Bramley’s heart leaped in excitement, but also in panic. He had no idea how to be a magician. He had never learned the ancient chants or the precise gestures. Still, he couldn’t let his father down. 
The next morning, with an awkward swish of his tail and a deep breath, Bramley stood in front of a gathered crowd of woodland creatures, eager for his first magic performance. He lifted his paws, trying to remember what his father had done with such confidence. But instead of a dazzling display of fireworks, a cloud of dandelion fluff exploded from his fingertips. The audience gasped. Bramley’s ears turned bright red.
“I… I meant to do that,” he stammered.
Next, he tried summoning fire. Instead, a tiny, apologetic flame flickered to life and immediately blew out, leaving behind a faint smell of burnt marshmallows.
Bramley was mortified, but then he saw Grindle at the back of the crowd, smiling and shaking his head. “Don’t worry, son,” his father called out. “Magic isn’t about perfection. It’s about *believing*.”