Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Moss Gate of Duskspring

More about Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Moss Gate of Duskspring

The fog smelled of wet stone and old greenery as Hugo and Brummel entered the valley of Duskspring. It wasn't a place found on maps, but one that only appeared when you were looking for something you couldn't name. The wind didn't move forward there, but swirled softly, as if stirring memories. "Do you feel that?" Hugo asked, his voice muffled as if through moss. "As if the place were listening to us," Brummel murmured. They followed a barely visible path that ran between washed-out stones and dense lichen. Everything was green—not the bright green of spring, but the deep, velvety green that covers things long forgotten. A spring gurgled in the distance, but its sound seemed to come from several directions at once. Then they paused. Before them rose a wall of thick, living moss, as tall as a house and growing in soft curves like a wave. In its center grew a round gate—not built, but created. The moss had retreated in a perfect arch, and in the opening, not darkness shimmered, but a soft, green glow. "This is no ordinary gate," Hugo said quietly. Brummel stepped closer and ran his finger along the moss edge. The gate pulsed slightly, as if it had breathed. A small stone rose from the ground beside them. Engraved on it in ancient root runes was: "Only those who forget themselves may pass." Hugo frowned. "What does that mean?" Brummel was silent for a while. Then he said, "Perhaps it means... letting go. Not wanting to know what awaits you. Just going." Hugo nodded slowly. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes—and let go. The worries, the thoughts of the next goal, the question of whether they were on the right track or just taking a detour. For a moment, he even forgot who he was. When he opened his eyes again, the green light before him had softened. It invited him, not with sounds, but with silence. He stepped through it – and Brummel followed him. On the other side, the world changed. The sounds were as if filtered through water. Trees here grew not toward the sky, but sideways, their roots floating through the air like threads. A fine mist hung between the branches like shimmering curtains. And moss grew everywhere – on air, on light, on memory. In the middle of the forest stood a small spring. Its water did not flow downward, but floated in drops that danced in circles. Hugo bent down – and in the surface of the water, he saw not himself, but someone he could once have become. Someone who had given up too soon. Someone who had waited instead of asking. Brummel stepped behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes we have to go through places that show us who we haven't become." Hugo nodded. It hurt, but it was quiet. When they stepped back through the Moss Gate later, the light remained the same.