Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Forgotten Door in the Hillside

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Brummel Mossbeard was searching for wild herbs, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere. Perhaps it was precisely this distraction that made him stop. He had bent down to pick a clump of meadow sorrel when his gaze fell upon something that didn't quite fit the landscape. An irregular border beneath the moss, barely visible, like the shadow of a forgotten thought. "Hugo," he called softly, "come here." The little hobbit stepped out of the partial shade of a hazel bush. His brow was furrowed, his gaze alert. Brummel pointed wordlessly to the ground. Hugo crouched down, gently running his hand over the damp greenery. Beneath lay old wood. No boardwalk, no paneling. A door, set into the hillside, without a handle, without a hinge, without a crack. "That's strange," Hugo murmured. "I think... it's only there when you're not looking for it." They stepped back, pretending to sort cones. One began to whistle, the other looked up at the clouds. And when they looked again—seemingly by chance—it was open. Only a crack, but open. A gust of wind escaped from inside. It smelled of old parchment, of long-gone rain on warm stone, of apples that had never been picked. And of something else: a memory that remembered them. They descended. The steps were uneven, formed from earth and roots. Below, a circular room opened up with soft, moss-covered walls. In its center stood a table. On it lay objects—familiar and strange at once. A wooden mushroom, like the one Hugo tried to carve as a child, before his father took the knife away. A silver button, identical to the one he once lost one rainy morning at the market. A cloth handkerchief, with an embroidered "B" in old-fashioned script. "I lost that," Brummel breathed. In his hand lay a dried flower—golden yellow, delicate, still fragrant. "I wanted to give it to my mother. But it crumbled before I got home." They looked around. The room breathed. It wasn't old. It was timeless. Not a storage room, not a dungeon. A memory made of earth. In a niche rested a mirror. Dim, like fogged glass. No pictures, no faces. Only movement, as if something were searching within it—not the past, but an anchor in the present. Hugo stepped closer. He heard no voice, saw no words. But deep down, he knew: What is lost is not gone. It waits to be remembered. They stayed a while. Said nothing. Didn't have to say anything. Then they stepped out, silent as sleepwalkers. The door closed behind them, without a sound. When they turned around, it was gone. Only slope. Moss. Grass. And at its core, a feeling—hard to name, easy to carry. Something that stays with you when you remember something you've never forgotten.