The mushroom stood there in the depths of the forest like a washed-up card player who had seen too much, won too little, and now passed the time by lazily puffing smoke. It didn’t care about the audacity of passing snails or the gossip of the moss—it just kept puffing, as if waiting for a long-overdue secret meeting.
Then came the flash. A sudden burst of light, an exposure, and every spore scattered in panic, like a gang fleeing after a botched safe-cracking job. The photographer nodded with satisfaction: “Gotcha, old chap.”
The mushroom had no comment on the event. It simply stood there in silence—because a self-respecting mushroom does not issue press statements