Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Airhouse of Nirriblan

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The wind was capricious that morning. It seemed to carry stories that couldn't decide whether to whisper or shout. Hugo pulled up the collar of his vest and gazed across the windswept moor. Brummel Mossbart trudged beside him, clutching his staff tightly, which in gusts seemed like a wobbly mast. "It's supposed to be up there," murmured Brummel, pointing with his gnarled hand toward the cloud-shrouded ridge. But no house was in sight. Only the wind, sweeping, tugging, and laughing. They continued climbing until the ground suddenly felt springy beneath their feet—a sensation as if they were walking on invisible cushions. Then, out of the mist, the Airhouse of Nirriblan emerged. It wasn't a hut in the true sense of the word, more a structure of airy wood, shimmering canvases, and wind-sculpted arches. It hovered just above the ground, held by currents that no one could see, only feel. On the underside, a wind-driven disc slowly rotated, singing. "A house that doesn't let go of the sky," Hugo said softly. Brummel nodded. "And that can only be heard if you remain silent." For so it was said: the doors of the air house do not open by knocking, not by shouting – but only by silently thinking a question. And so they stood side by side, hands clasped, each asking a question that they hoped the wind would carry away. A soft click. Then the door opened as if by itself. No sound, just a barely perceptible release of air. Inside, everything was suffused with light. Shelves full of feathered books floated on silken threads. Wind chimes hung from the ceiling, but they didn't move. In the middle of the room hovered a table on which lay a bowl of pebbles – each a different color, smooth as glass. A gentle whisper. Not a voice, but wind forming words. "An answer is a promise. And every promise has a counterweight." Brummel stepped forward. He picked up a pebble-blue stone. The wind was silent, then a memory came to him—not his own, but that of an old tree that had been silent for centuries. Tears welled in his eyes. "I just wanted to know why it stopped growing," he whispered. Hugo didn't reach out right away. His question was quieter, buried deeper. When he finally touched the greenish, shimmering stone, he felt an answer rising within him, like a plant seeing light for the first time. But at the same time, he lost something. A song his mother had once sung to him left him. All he knew was that it had been beautiful. They left the air house in silence. The door closed behind them, as if nothing had happened. The wind had died down. No shouting, no whispering—only silence. Brummel looked at him. "Was it worth it?" Hugo didn't answer. But there was a new light in his gaze. Some answers carry sadness within them – and yet they bring light.