Nárvel

As evening falls, Nárvel wanders the clearings where no one stops to linger and gathers the seeds that never managed to sprout. He keeps them beside his citrine, one by one, holding a clover to remember the exact place where he found each one. He doesn't speak with trees or animals. His task is a different one. He watches the corners where the forest's longings were left buried under leaves, mud, or whole seasons of forgetting, and he moves them when no one is looking, drawing them a little closer to the light. That's why he often seems distracted, with the expression of someone listening to something far away. Those who have seen him swear he never hurries. He knows the secret time of roots — and also the time of what we believe is lost while it keeps growing underground.