━ ⭑─⭒━

━ ⭒─⭑━

Time didn't touch you as it did mortals. Days turned to weeks, and yet you aged swiftly, your small body unfolding like a budding sapling.

What had once been a fragile, vine-wrapped form now took the shape of a toddler, no older than three or four in appearance.

Your limbs, once thin as new branches, became soft and round with the fullness of youth. Your skin still carried the warmth of autumn, its hues shifting ever so slightly in the light—bronzed like late summer, tinged with gold like the turning leaves.

Yet for all your growth, one thing remained the same: your silence.

You didn't cry; you didn't laugh. You simply watched.

The world moved around you, vibrant and full of life—nymphs dancing, rivers laughing, birds calling to one another in the trees—but you remained still, absorbing rather than participating.

It wasn't sadness. It wasn't detachment.

It was simply how you were.

.☆.

One afternoon, as the golden hues of autumn deepened, a group of nymphs gathered around you.

They twirled through the clearing, their laughter light as drifting petals, their bare feet rustling through the fallen leaves. They danced in a circle around your small form, their voices ringing like wind chimes, their arms sweeping through the air as they cast handfuls of crisp, red leaves into the sky.

The leaves swirled and spun, catching the sunlight, fluttering down like a rain of fire and gold.

Yet, even as the autumn colors rained around you, you didn't react.

You sat there, legs tucked beneath you, hands resting in your lap, watching.

The youngest of the nymphs, a girl with curls as wild as climbing ivy, pouted as she twirled closer. "Why won't you laugh?" she huffed, kneeling before you, her large, honey-colored eyes searching your face.

You simply blinked at her.

The other nymphs giggled behind their hands, whispering about how cute you were, how strange it was that you never reacted the way other spirits did.

The young nymph huffed again, more determined now. She reached out, her small hands gently squishing your round cheeks.

"Awww, look at him!" she cooed, squeezing lightly. "Such a cute little tree spirit!"

The others awed in agreement, watching as your chubby face scrunched slightly under her touch.

Still, you made no sound.

You didn't swat her hands away. You didn't frown. You didn't giggle.

You only tilted your head, your wide, knowing eyes locked onto hers.

A single leaf from your tree drifted down, settling softly onto your petal-crowned hair. Another fell, landing gently against your cheek, curling against the warmth of your skin.

The nymphs paused.

The young one, still kneeling before you, stared into your deep, unblinking gaze, her lips parting as if she finally noticed something different. Something unspoken in the way you watched rather than reacted.

Her voice softened, curiosity overtaking her playfulness.

"Why won't you smile?" she asked.

The wind stirred.

You simply kept staring, as if the answer lay in the space between falling leaves and fading seasons.

The moment stretched—until a voice, soft yet strong, called through the air.

"Little one," Demeter's voice carried through the grove, warm and rich as the earth itself.

Your head turned instantly.

Without hesitation, without question, you reached out.

Demeter approached, her golden robes trailing through the fallen leaves, her presence like the last embrace of summer before winter's arrival. She knelt, scooping you up into her arms with ease, holding you against her chest.

"You always find trouble, don't you?" she murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You didn't respond.

But you did lean into her warmth.

The nymphs watched as she carried you away, their once-playful expressions now tinged with quiet wonder.

They didn't speak until Demeter and you had disappeared beyond the trees.

Then, the young nymph whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

"...He doesn't behave like a tree spirit."

The others, for once, had no response.

Something about you unsettled them. Not in fear, not in distrust—but in a way that made them hesitate. Tree spirits, though silent and strong, were meant to be lively, playful, full of light.

Yet you...

You simply watched.

And that, more than anything, made them wonder.

☆
✩
☆

Demeter treated you with the same care as her other spirits—yet she never left you alone for too long, and it clung to her in the way she touched you, in the way her hands lingered just a second longer when she tucked your hair behind your ear.

She taught you everything. The sky, the rivers, the cycle of life, the meaning of the seasons.

She took your small hand in hers, guiding you through wheat fields and flowered meadows, showing you how the wind carried seeds, how the earth made space for growth and decay.

She pointed to the sky, explaining the constellations.

She told you how the sun chased the moon, how the stars whispered secrets, how the rivers ran endlessly to the sea.

You didn't ask many questions, not the way the other nature spirits did.

Instead, you observed.

You watched how the clouds moved with purpose across the sky.

You watched how the wheat bent beneath the wind, yet never broke.

You watched how the rivers carried fallen leaves, never returning them.

And the more you watched, the more you began to wonder.

But what gripped you most, what made you feel something deep in your chest, was watching things end.

It started with the leaves.

One day, as you sat beneath your tree, a gust of wind came, shaking the branches. A single, golden leaf broke free, spiraling toward the ground.

You tilted your head, watching as it drifted, slow and soundless, before settling into the earth.

Gone.

You reached out, small fingers brushing the fragile edges.

It didn't move. It didn't return to the branch.

You looked up, waiting, as if it might change.

But nothing happened.

The leaf didn't go back.

Your brows furrowed—not in frustration, not in sadness, but in deep, quiet thought.

That evening, as Demeter sat beside you, her hands weaving wildflowers into a garland, you finally spoke.

Your voice was soft, careful.

"The leaves always fall."

Demeter paused.

She turned to you, her golden eyes searching yours. "Yes," she murmured, twining another flower into the braid. "The trees must let go of their leaves when the seasons change."

You stared down at the leaf in your lap, its color already fading at the edges.

"...But why?"

Demeter exhaled, brushing a hand over your hair. "Because the trees must rest. And when spring comes, they will grow new leaves."

You thought about this for a long moment, your small fingers turning the leaf over.

"...But this one won't come back."

Demeter stilled.

The weight of your words settled into the space between you.

She reached out, taking the leaf gently from your grasp, rubbing it between her fingers before placing it on the earth. "No, ____," she admitted softly. "That one will not come back."

You blinked, staring at where it lay among countless others.

The wind blew again, carrying some away—gone forever.

Your hands curled slightly in your lap.

You didn't know why, but something about that made your chest feel strange.

Like a small, quiet ache you didn't yet understand.