Prompt:
The sun was setting over the gentle hills of the Shire, painting the sky in hues of orange and rose that softened the world into a dreamy haze. Beneath the spreading branches of a towering oak, a hobbit sat on a mossy stone, his small figure wrapped in a well-worn waistcoat of deep green, embroidered with brass buttons that caught the fading light.
In his hands, he cradled a finely carved pipe, its long stem curling like a willow branch. With practiced ease, he packed it full of aromatic pipeweed, its earthy scent mingling with the crisp, golden air of early autumn. From his waistcoat pocket, he drew a match, striking it against a small rock with a sharp snap. The flame danced for a moment before he cupped it against the pipe's bowl, drawing deep until the embers glowed like a tiny hearth.
He exhaled slowly, sending a plume of silver smoke curling upwards, its spirals twisting and twining like lazy rivers in the sky. The hobbit's round face softened into contentment, his bright eyes half-lidded as he gazed out over the quiet meadows and the winding dirt paths that led to home.
The smoke rose, drifting with the evening breeze, carrying with it the rich, earthy scent of Old Toby—a pipeweed as fine as any in the Four Farthings. He traced the shapes in the smoke with his finger, watching as they shifted and faded, like memories slipping through the fingers of time.
As twilight deepened, fireflies began to wink in the grass, their golden lights reflecting in the hobbit's eyes. He leaned back against the oak, his bare feet nestled in the cool earth, savoring each puff of his pipe as though it were a song only he could hear.
In that quiet moment, surrounded by the simple beauty of the Shire, he felt the world slow, the worries of the day fading into the distance like the last wisp of smoke that curled into the star-dappled sky.
Artist
