The wind that swept through the high mountain orphanage carried no news, no storm—only silence, the kind that came just before something changed forever.
Perched on the edge of the Eastern Ridge, nestled between towering pine trees and snow-dusted cliffs, the orphanage stood like a weary but loving elder. Its stone walls, patched with wood in some places, bore the scars of decades—scratches from windblown branches, moss creeping up from the base, and the occasional childish scribble hidden near the entrance. Behind the main hall, where the forest gently opened to a garden, Elarin Solas knelt alone in the soil.
He leaned on his old shovel, its handle worn smooth by time and service, and looked down at the shallow hole he had just finished digging. In his other hand, he held a sapling—a silver-leafed pine with needles soft as silk and roots already twitching with life. The sapling shimmered faintly in the morning light, kissed by frost yet defiantly vibrant.
Elarin's robes were humble and frayed at the edges, but meticulously clean. The once-white fabric had faded into a gentle ash-gray, and the scarf wrapped around his neck had been knitted by the smallest girl in the home. His fingers, calloused from decades of digging, lifting, and healing, trembled slightly as he adjusted the sapling's position in the earth.
He smiled, not at the tree, but at the ground. He always believed the soil remembered. That every buried seed, every grave, every dropped tear stayed woven into the memory of the earth.
"This will be your home now," he whispered, his voice like a breeze through old pages. "Grow strong. Give shade. Maybe one day, some little feet will rest beneath you."
As he nestled the roots carefully, a light breeze rolled through the trees, brushing pine needles and distant bells hanging from the porch roof. The air smelled of sap, damp wood, and freshly boiled grain porridge.
Behind him, children's voices rang out from the main hall. Laughter, shrieks, a pot clanging, a chair scraping. Their lives bloomed noisily in the warmth of morning chaos.
"Sera! You cheated!" "Did not!" "You moved Grandpa Solas' stone marker!" "Did not!" "Did too!"
Elarin chuckled to himself, shaking his head. He whispered without looking back, "As if I've ever been mad about winning."
He pressed the soil gently around the sapling's base. His hands moved slowly but deliberately, every motion like a prayer. His fingers trembled a little more now—not from sickness, but age. His knuckles were swollen, his veins like rivers under parchment skin. Yet they moved with certainty. As though this moment, this planting, was more important than any meal or meeting.
He rocked back slightly, settling into a seated position on the cold ground. The soil was firm and cool, yet comforting. The mountain's breath wrapped around him. Snow hadn't yet reached the garden, but frost had painted the edges of leaves in delicate lace.
The door creaked open.
"Grandpa Solas?"
The voice was small, but not uncertain. Sera, eight years old and already the most stubborn in the house, stood in the doorway with one hand on her hip and the other wrapped in a shawl twice her size. Her cheeks were bright red from the cold, her curly hair tied up in a frizzled knot that had probably been neat five minutes ago.
"The stew's burning," she said. "Again."
Elarin turned slowly, smiling gently. "That's the third time this week, isn't it?"
"Because you keep planting trees in the cold when you say you'll be back in five minutes."
He gave her a mock-guilty look, his gray eyes soft with affection. "A man loses track of time when talking to the earth."
She didn't buy it. She crossed her arms. "Don't smile like that. Your soup tastes like burned socks."
Elarin laughed, a deep, warm sound that filled the garden. "Socks aren't so bad when you've tasted worse. Besides, a little fire teaches patience."
Sera rolled her eyes and stepped back into the doorway. "Whatever. Just don't fall asleep out here again. Last time we had to drag you in with a wheelbarrow."
"I remember," he said, still smiling. "And I appreciated the extra blanket."
The door shut with a creak.
Elarin turned back to the tree. For a moment, the warmth from inside faded into silence again. He placed his hands on his knees and took a deep breath. It caught in his chest—not painfully, just… deeply. As if the world itself paused to listen.
He looked at the clouds drifting above the mountain. A hawk cried in the distance, circling high above. The pine trees swayed gently in rhythm with something ancient.
"I think," he said softly, "I've done enough."
A strange warmth rose in his chest. Not fire. Not pressure. Just… warmth. The kind that slipped into your bones when you held a child for the first time. The kind that came after a long, hard day of kindness.
His breath slowed.
He closed his eyes.
His smile stayed.
The shovel slipped from his fingers and landed softly in the soil.
And the mountain, for the first time in many years, fell silent.