The Song of the Pumpkin Flute Player Nighttime Serenade

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Autumn settled over the land like an ancient spell that returned every year. Mists rose from the valleys, and the forests burned in colors of gold, red, and copper. Above it all, the moon stood large and round, so bright that it cast shadows more sharply than the sun itself. In front of a weathered house, perched alone at the edge of the forest, sat the Pumpkin Flute Player. He was a figure that seemed half human, half creature of nature: his skin shimmered greenish like the moss on old well stones, and in his large, black eyes there was a gleam that seemed both ancient and childlike. His hair was composed of leaves and blossoms, thistles, berries, and small twigs, as if the forest itself had chosen to adorn him. His robe was made of coarse cloth, patched and torn many times, but he wore it with dignity. Before him stood pumpkins of all sizes. Some were smooth and unbroken, others hollowed out, with faces that laughed, grinned, or glared. As soon as the flautist played the first notes, their faces began to glow. A warm, orange glow, as if they had hearts of their own. The melody was soft, yet carried by a power that could do more than just reach ears. It crept into the earth, awakening forgotten seeds, luring beetles and owls from their hiding places. Even the old house behind him, whose windows had long since become blind and dark, seemed to be listening for the music.It was said that the pumpkin flautist only played on nights when the autumn moon was full in the sky. Then the boundary between the worlds was as thin as spider silk. His song was a protection, but also an invitation: for the lost, the nameless, the souls who could no longer find their place. That evening, the music did not go unanswered. From the shadows of the tall firs stepped a figure, little more than a veil of mist. It swayed as if the wind held it together. Its voice was barely more than a breath: "Play for me. I have lost my name." The flutist ran his fingers over the holes, and the melody changed. From serene tones came a deep, yearning melody that echoed through the night like a cry. The pumpkins flickered brighter, their faces moving almost as if they shared in the search. The fog thickened, forming for a moment something human. But the face remained blank. "Without my name," the figure whispered, "I am nothing. A shadow that passes." The flutist closed his eyes. He knew that names were more than mere words—they were roots that anchored a soul to being. His music became a web of tones, each like a thread groping for a lost pattern. Minutes stretched on, perhaps hours. The night held its breath. Then, softly as the trickle of a distant fountain, a word formed from the melody. At first barely audible, then clear and firm: "Alverin." The figure trembled.