Hugo of the Wurzelstock – Homecoming Final Chapter

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The sun was slowly sinking towards the horizon as Hugo of the Wurzelstock and Brummel Mossbeard stepped over the last hill. The valley stretched out before them, familiar and peaceful, as if no time had passed. But in their hearts, they knew that weeks of adventure, trials, and hardship lay behind them. Their feet were heavy, their backpacks laden with travel scars, but the smiles that crossed their lips were genuine and deep. "So there it is," murmured Hugo, pointing down toward the small house, its roof overgrown with moss and its chimney faintly smoking. Brummel nodded, leaned heavily on his staff, and sighed. "It's hard to believe it's still standing. With all the stories, we'd almost forgotten that the world goes on silently down here." They followed the narrow path that led down between brambles and wild roses. The garden gate creaked familiarly as Hugo pushed it open. Inside, they were greeted by the scent of lavender and herbs that Hugo had planted before the journey. The beds were a little overgrown, but that was precisely what made it so magical—as if the garden had been waiting for his return.Hugo sank heavily onto the wooden bench beneath the old linden tree that stood in the middle of the garden. Brummel sat down next to him, and for a while they were silent, listening to the rustling leaves, the chirping of crickets, and simply breathing in the peace. "Do you remember standing in the tower of whispering gears and feeling like time itself was holding its breath?" Brummel finally began. Hugo laughed softly. "And you swore the mechanism was cursed. But it was only your coat that got caught." "Hmm," Brummel grumbled, but his eyes sparkled. "But it was really dangerous in the Misty Forest. I thought we'd never find our way back." "Yes," Hugo nodded. "And yet, every wrong turn somehow brought us closer together. In the end, it wasn't courage alone, but our friendship that sustained us." They continued to reminisce, telling of encounters with strange creatures, of riddles they could only solve together, of nights filled with doubt and days filled with hope. With every word, the garden seemed to grow brighter, as if it were absorbing the stories itself. As dusk fell, Hugo got up, went into the house, and returned with a large mug of beer. He placed two mugs on the small wooden table, filled them to the brim, and raised his mug. "To us, Brummel. To all that lies behind us—and to what may come." "To us," Brummel replied, and the two clinked glasses.