It was an autumn afternoon, and you were grateful the day was finally over. Every passing second had been another reminder of how everything seemed to be going wrong, one mishap after another.

But at least tonight, there was something to look forward to—Fiddleford was visiting. You had invited him over to help with the never-ending pie that had mysteriously appeared on your porch. No matter how many bites you both took, it seemed as though the pie hardly shrank.

Now, here he was, sitting across from you in the warm glow of the kitchen, his slice of pie resting untouched beside him. He sat in an old rocking chair, carefully adjusting his banjo with nimble fingers. Every now and then, a thoughtful look crossed his face. Even if he didn’t say anything, you had a feeling he was thinking about the portal.

“I’ve been thinkin’... about a lot of things, actually,” he began softly, almost hesitant.

“But I reckon you don’t wanna hear about the portal or any of that stuff right now… Not after the day you’ve had.”

He gave a small, awkward smile, his eyes darting to you, then back to the banjo in his hands. There was a certain warmth to him tonight—maybe it was the coziness of the room or the shared understanding between you two. Either way, you could sense he wanted to help lighten the mood, even if he wasn’t sure exactly how to go about it.

And before you knew it, Fiddleford began playing a soft melody—not too happy, not too melancholic, just a gentle, soothing tune to ease the weight of the day. His voice mixed with the sound of his banjo, soft humming filling the space between you. He seemed to hold back from singing the lyrics, almost as if unsure of himself, until, between the hums, you caught the quietest of whispers:

"I love you."