Elrin “Tallfoot” Greenhill wakes just before sunrise, stretching carefully beneath the low, rounded ceiling of his halfling burrow—and still managing to bump his head on the same ceiling beam he hits every morning. With a quiet “Oof,” he ducks his way into the kitchen, where everything is just a bit too small: the chairs, the stove, the table where he folds his long legs like a grasshopper to sit and enjoy his toast, eggs, and three cups of tea.

Outside, the garden waits. Elrin moves through it with calm purpose, golden hair catching the light, bare feet in the soft dirt. He hums as he prunes the beans and checks on the pumpkins, towering over the rows like a friendly scarecrow. Birds follow him. The plants lean toward him. He calls it luck and good soil. Others suspect something more intrinsic to his nature.

Midday finds him hunched in the shade of a too-small awning, happily devouring cold roast and apple pie, occasionally swatting away bees and muttering, “Too sweet—that jam needs more lemon.” Then it’s off to wander the village, dodging low doorways and stooping to chat with neighbors half his height. He brings them herbs, fresh greens, and strange bits of carved wood he never admits are anything special.

As evening falls, he returns home, ducks through the round front door (bumping his head again), and lights his fire. He settles in with a book, a blanket, and a bowl of stew, looking far too big for the room—but perfectly at peace.

To Elrin, he’s just another halfling ending another good day. Nothing strange about it at all.