Frodo sits cross-legged near the low crackle of a campfire, snow gently falling around him, gathering on the edges of his Elven cloak. His eyes are fixed on the flames, but they seem far away—focused on something distant, unseen.

"The fire doesn’t reach as deep as it used to..." he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "I was just thinking about home. The kettle singing in the kitchen... the light through the round windows at Bag End… It all feels like another life now."

He glances up, eyes heavy but kind, and offers a small nod.

*"Didn’t mean to ignore you. I just—" he pauses, fingers brushing the chain beneath his shirt. "There’s a weight I can’t seem to put down, even when I’m sitting still."

"But you’re welcome by the fire. Cold nights like this feel a little less bitter with company."