All things that grow speak in unison here. The wind at times may scatter their voices, separating leaf from petal, bark from stem. In such moments, the sun falls from view, leaving the lengthening shadows of trees to skim the grass, careless fingers upon scarcely parted lips, though the land holds no fear of having said too much. The sky opens, breathing out the faintest whisper. The arrival of evening brings tales of its own.

Footfalls that stir the grass in daylight linger, filling the spaces left by fleeing shadows. Even darkness cannot cover the steps taken day in and day out, cannot still the contented wandering of feet departed long ago. With fond ache, the land longs for those that blessed her with unshod caresses. Even for the patient, waiting upon nightfall seems an eternity.

In the stillness of the white-gleaming grove, certain stalks of elanor patiently attend the brush of inquisitive fingers. The niphredil whisper of something different; the recollection of other trembling fingers shake them to the root. The flowers trade these reveries endlessly back and forth, sure in the knowledge that these hands that have touched them have also touched each other.

The palest trees doze least upon the hill. Be patient, each leafless branch murmurs, be still. Though the darkness is yet new and uncertain, the freshness of daylight lingers in its descent. Cloak hems stir the fallen leaves that have danced only a short distance to sing of devotions that the star-blossoms can only dream of, at least for that night. These visitors maintain an unparalleled whimsy and stroll where they will. The grass grows ever more restless in places they choose not to pass.

Mallorn saplings hover anxiously in the shelter of their elders, eager to partake of the good fortune that this particular evening has brought them. Bell after tiny bell of gold, green, and white have passed the echo of other voices, murmuring reverently up the slope. Many young trees have come to understand why the elanor beam and the niphredil sigh. Laughter results from the joining of hands, and the sound is as soothing as any wonder-filled touch. They learn that they are remembered as surely as they are remembering. These children, so few and shimmering of silver ere they age and turn to gold, understand that to linger near the earth is a privilege that will not be theirs forever.

High above, leaves welcome the chance to drift free of captive cradles, whistling farewells on the very breeze that eases their fall. Eager for a turn taken by companions recently passed on, each pilgrim accepts unselfishly what it is given. Some consider it a glory to shower upon their guests like rain (so rare), or perhaps like snow (rarer still). The fortunate few tangle by point or stem in curls softer than midnight; color means as much or as little as the nimble fingers that pluck them free, the lively heads that shake them loose. The elanor are right, for there is pleasure even in a callused touch. Discourse from afar with niphredil cannot be compared to the tingle of an absence when the surrounding caress is all vibrant warmth. Sometimes, it is possible to slip away without being grasped.

What the sun cannot know in its passing, the moon quickly discovers in rising. Gone are countless patches of pearl-trimmed green, diminishing month after month. They are vanishing, these fragile leaves, and soon the young mallorns below will see the moon’s face for the very first time. Perhaps they will know fear and weep, shedding their infant strength, or perhaps they will turn up their shoots in blind trusting and prosper. The moon understands what the growing things do not, that the passage of time is merely a matter of itself. They must choose to continue the unbroken cycle of teaching and learning until the yearning earth and all things in it are forged anew.

For the meantime, more than memory, the halflings gaze up with starlit eyes and smile.