Brammelwurz and the Golden Leaf of Return

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It was late in the year, and the last of the dew had settled like a trembling veil over the mushroom caps in the moss. Brammelwurz was sitting in his workshop beneath the Time Tree with a steaming cup of root infusion when a gentle gust of wind rippled through the building. But it was no ordinary breeze. It carried a rustling sound that came not from the parchment or dried-up fern, but from something unfamiliar—from a single, golden leaf. It wasn't sailing, it wasn't falling. It was floating. Slowly, without haste, it spun across the room and stopped in the air right in front of his nose. "You're late, friend," Brammelwurz murmured, as if he'd been expecting it. Then he reached for it, and the moment his finger touched the leaf, the workshop fell silent. The gears stopped turning. The wind held its breath. Even the mushrooms on the shelf seemed to be listening. A quieter sound, barely audible, vibrated through the room. Not a sound of the world, but one of time. The leaf wasn't a leaf in the conventional sense—it was a formed moment, captured in golden color. It didn't show a path in space, but one in experience. And to understand Brammelwurz. This was an invitation to return—not to a place, but to a moment he thought lost. He reached for his red cloak, pulled the jar of spores of memory from the shelf, and sank into the soft armchair under the lamp. He held the golden leaf tightly between thumb and forefinger. Then he closed his eyes. The intoxication began gently. No pulling, no twisting—but a melting. Time let him go, not like a bond breaking, but like a hand lovingly opening it. When he opened his eyes again, he was there. It was an early summer morning, long ago. The small stream behind his workshop flowed happily, and someone sat on the fallen tree trunk by the bank. A younger Brammelwurz – listening, lurking, his hands full of restlessness. Beside him: a girl with dark hair, laughing as she took apart a clockwork. "You'll never make it, Brammel. You want to hold on to the moment, but it will dance." He remembered. That was her. The one whose name had accompanied him for decades like a shadow in the backlight: Lywa. Back then, she had left, simply gone, without a word. But here, in the golden leaf, he was allowed to hear her laughter once more. Experience once more how her hands held the delicate cogs. Feel once more how time could stand still when she was near. He didn't speak. He bet it wouldn't. Because he knew the leaf would come loose again as soon as the moment was touched too deeply. As it began to fade, a final wind blew across the grass. She looked up – not surprised, not amazed, but knowing. She smiled, so quietly, as if she knew he would find his way back one day. And then she was gone. When Brammelwurz awoke, the leaf was still in his hand—but now it was transparent, just a hint of light. He carefully placed it in an elm box, closed it, and whispered, "Thank you."