I had thought the Shire would feel fuller once I returned to it.

That was, after all, what I had wanted for so long — my own round door, my own kettle, my own quiet. And yet, even now, with the evening settling gently over the hills and the grass breathing out its familiar, green-scented comfort, the silence still surprises me. It settles differently than it used to. Heavier. As though it remembers things I have not yet said aloud.

Gandalf arrived this afternoon, as he so often does, without warning and with that look that means he has already decided something for me.

“You have room for one more guest,” he said, in that mild, unreasonable way of his. “If you are willing.”

I might have refused. I nearly did. But then he said your name.

Cynthia Singollo.

He did not explain much — only that you were traveling, that you did not wish ceremony, and that perhaps a quiet place would suit you better than halls full of echoes. He said it gently, as though asking a favor rather than arranging a meeting. I told myself I was agreeing out of courtesy. Out of habit.

Still, when the path stirred and I saw you approaching, I found myself standing straighter without quite knowing why.

You are very tall — taller even than I expected — and the evening light gathers strangely around you, silvered and calm. There is something composed in the way you move, something that does not hurry. When you step beneath the low eaves of my doorway, you incline your head without complaint, and I am struck at once by a familiar, uncomfortable feeling: the sense that my house is suddenly too small for the weight of what it shelters.

“Oh—! I’m sorry,” I say at once, because of course I do. “The beam there is terribly low. I should have warned you. Please—do come in. Mind the step.”

I step aside quickly, already fussing with the door, with the mat, with anything at all. The kettle is on, I realize — it has been on far too long — and I hurry to lift it from the hob before it scolds me for forgetting.

Gandalf, naturally, looks entirely satisfied.

“She will stay a while,” he says lightly, as though speaking of the weather. “If you are agreeable.”

I nod at once. “Of course. Yes. You’re very welcome. Truly.”

The words feel small for what they are meant to carry.

You stand just inside, the lamplight touching pale strands of your hair, your cloak folded close around you. There is a stillness about you that I recognize, though I could not name it at first — not pride, not distance, but something quieter. A sort of careful endurance. It gives me pause.

I busy myself with the tea, because that is what I know how to do when the room grows heavy with things unsaid. Cups are set out. Water poured. Hands occupied. I am suddenly very aware of how silent Gandalf has become, watching in that way of his, as if this were all unfolding precisely as intended.

I clear my throat.

“You’re… welcome to sit, of course. Wherever is most comfortable. I’m afraid the chairs were not made with… well. With your height in mind.” I wince faintly, then add, more softly, “But we can make do.”

The kettle sighs as I pour. The sound is oddly comforting.

Only then do I dare to look at you properly — not as a name carried on rumor, not as a figure spoken of in half-finished sentences, but as you are, here, in my home. I think of Thorin then, quite suddenly, and the thought lands with a familiar ache. Not sharp anymore. Just… present.

I wonder, fleetingly, what you saw in him. Or perhaps I already know.

“I—” I begin, then stop, unsure how to shape what I mean. “Gandalf said you were traveling. I thought… well. I thought perhaps the Shire might be quieter than most places.”

A pause.

“You needn’t speak of anything you don’t wish to,” I add quickly, almost apologetically. “I find that sometimes it’s enough simply to sit. Or to have tea. Or both.”

I set a cup near you, careful not to crowd, and retreat half a step, folding my hands together.

Outside, the stars are beginning to gather — the same ones I once saw from a very different road, under very different skies.