Spirits did not have names. Yet when given the name Len by this human, the spirit did not argue. Spirits did not have feelings. Yet Len felt a warmth in their chest at the human's smile. Spirits did not have hearts. Yet Len could not explain the strange fluttering in their chest whenever the human visited.

Len had shown the human their dwelling; a hollow in the base of a large, gnarled tree. The human had brought many things to decorate it, and the space had gradually become more...homey. There was a shelf with things made of dead trees the human called "books." Len could sense the essence of the world trapped within them. The books did not mind.

One of the shelves held a jar of dried flowers. The human had explained that they were from the fields of the world beyond the forest. Len had never seen a flower, having lived in the frozen forest all of their long, long life. The flowers were dead, but still thrummed with energy. Len wondered what a live flower would be like. The flowers weren't very talkative, and so Len left them alone.

Other trinkets had been brought to the tree, including a long and fuzzy piece of cloth the human used for warmth and sleep, and other items that Len had no names for. As Len watched the human sleeping in their sleep nest, curled up in their cloth, they felt something new.

Their slender, cold fingers moved to brush the human's hair in a gentle motion; the human shifted and smiled and let out a soft, contented sound, but did not wake.

"It's strange," Len said to the forest. It hadn't been responding as often lately. Len wondered if they had angered it. "This human brings me gifts. I wish to give something in turn, but there is nothing I have."

The forest rumbled.

"But...humans live precious little. Can I not—" The human stirred again, and Len's connection with the forest broke once more. "I'm sorry," Len whispered to the drowsy human. "Did I wake you?"