Snufkin's only company was the sound of his footsteps. The birds had not yet begun to sing, nor had the critters of the woods awoken. He was ahead of them this year, as before. He'd even beaten the sun this time. The first signs of daylight were only just starting to reach the forest. His walking stick suddenly splashed in the water, Snufkin glancing at the small, previously-unnoticed stream. The last of the winter snows were still in thaw, but water was already flowing. Nature was waking up, and so he was doing his part in the eternal cycle. He pulled his scarf tighter, the air still catching up with the rest of nature in waking. Winters seemed to be getting colder, the chill lasting longer, and reaching deeper into him. He needed to sew an extra blanket soon. An extravagance, perhaps, but needed, for now.
His eyes caught the tell-tale signs of creatures still sleeping, they would all wake soon, and spring would truly begin. As he walked on, he could see Owls, Hedgehogs, and Foxes still in slumber. His eyes passed over a sleeping Creep, one of many in the forest, with too many names among them to recall. The ground was still cold, hardened beneath his feet, near-frozen grass occasionally crunching beneath him. This path was one tread into his very being, one he'd taken for years uncounted. An oddity, for someone like him, to know one path, one place so well, but even among those considered irregular, he never could quite conform. He'd more than once been offered a job as tour guide for the Valley, but the day he took up steady employment he'd just resign himself to the life of a park keeper. His thoughts broke at the sound of a sudden clack, what soil made such a sound?
Oh, his mind had wandered away again. It wasn't soil, but stone his stick had found. He looked ahead, from where nature had ended, and civilization began. Like a line drawn in the earth, soil had suddenly become stone.
Nearly there.
What was once forest, was gone now. Now there were cottages, lined up in rows on either side of a paved street. Featureless, sterile, near-copies, often distinguished only by coats of paint. From here to where his sight ended, there was easily a hundred people between these homes, and he could name perhaps a dozen of them. Once upon a time, Snufkin knew the names of all in the Valley, as they knew his. Once upon a time...
His feet touched cobblestone. It even felt unnatural, flattened out, not like true stone. The new sound of his steps greeted him, the only signs of true nature in sight were the occasional potted-plant as he walked. Such sights he'd seen nearly all his life, but as the years had moved on, so did the world, and this had long been the norm wherever people lived. He was only at the edge of the village, but there was already a brief stop to make.
This was it, yes, where it once was, anyway. Now, now it was many years gone, where sisters had once shared a home. Mymble's home, until she'd finally settled with the Inspector. Little My's, until the construction of this sterile village had begun, and an offer had tempted her enough to take it. Now, there were just two near-identical cottages, and a fence between them, filled with people Snufkin could neither name nor recognize.
He continued on, past the uniform, characterless, fenced houses, in this manufactured street, complete with tall, metal lamps. He'd once thought someone was controlling them to turn on at night, but no, apparently they were smart enough to do that on their own. In the dim light of the very early morning, they were all unlit. Snufkin preferred it this way, electrical light always had a certain something about it he didn't like. Give him sunlight, moonlight or any kind of firelight any day.
He came to a crossroads, briefly glancing to what was now a beaten path to more cottages. He could recall the exact spot, where, once upon a time, a tiny home had stood, crafted right into a gap in the earth. Another unique feature, now filled in, paved over and forgotten. How many even knew there used to be a home there? Snufkin had a good idea of the answer, and the likely fact it lined up with the number that remembered who it was who'd called it home.
Sniff had… Actually, Snufkin had forgotten the exact details, but he'd eventually left the Valley. The next time the two met, Sniff had gotten a top-hat, a monocle, and a suit that probably cost more than Snufkin could comfortably grasp. He'd heard Sniff had eventually settled somewhere far away, and very expensive. Somewhere Snufkin had never visited.
On he went, through familiar, foreign streets, the present clashing with memories of the past. Forest and cobblestone clashed in his mind, adventures had, and games played among trees that no longer were. Trees had given way to houses, flower patches to cobblestone, fireflies to street lights. Snufkin had stood in places that could be called concrete jungles, he liked them little less than places like this.
The cottages came to an end. A brief lapse, Snufkin knew, and he glanced at perhaps the single-most offensive thing in the Valley these days. A fence was bad enough, but what lay beyond said fence, that was the worst of things. Swings, a Slide, things to climb, all imprisoned. Even places to play had to be assigned now. Swaths of land were left clear these days. Carefully selected, built around, while the rest of nature was paved over, built over, and replaced. An attempt to place nature and civilization side-by-side in harmony, or so they said. The result was anything but; the steady encroachment of civilization upon nature's domain.
He'd been watching the process all his life.
He smiled to himself, at least children playing hadn't been entirely stifled yet. These streets would be alive with children playing very soon. It'd take something far more cunning than fences to stop children playing where they wanted.
The lapse broke, cottages soon surrounding him again, and he glanced briefly at one, remembering something else that time had lost. Old Mr Hemulen, it'd been so long since he'd been found, in his bed, the last notes he ever wrote on a nearby desk. Even in his last days, he'd been researching a new type of rose he'd found. A younger relative lived where his house used to be now, but Snufkin didn't know them well. Not that rare in these parts, these days. Fewer people wanted to talk with a passing snufkin anymore.
He suddenly stopped, a vast shadow moving across the ground ahead of him. On reflex, he turned upwards and there. A construct gracefully –if not silently- moving across the sky. They'd come far since the first, that two-person flying machine. The second take had been an improvement, and a great day. To see the Valley from the view of a bird was made only better by sharing it with everyone at once. From there, Snork's invention had spread like wildfire. Everywhere Snufkin went, he saw descendants of Snork's designs in the skies, there were even special ports for them now. It was no way to travel, but people did so, paying a hefty price for the privilege. Some said they'd brought the world closer together, letting goods and people travel further, and faster, but anything that let one move further, let them move further away. He'd seen faces he'd first met here, in places so very far away, far from the roots most tended to set down. Snork himself had once voiced such a worry. Snufkin could still picture the conflict written in Snork's face as he'd spoken of it. His inventions had brought more advancement than Snork had ever hoped, but Snork had found conflict in himself as time pressed on. As if he'd spent so long gazing at the horizon of the future, that he'd forgotten to recognize the here-and-now. Snufkin wondered if he'd ever come to peace with himself, in the end.
It had been many years since Snufkin had come to terms with the fact that he'd scarcely known Snork.
Snufkin walked on, the cottages fading into memory behind him, stone giving way back to soil, the sights, sounds and smells closer to memories he could recall. He could already hear it, the river, the water flowing gently in the quiet of the morning. The river he'd fished from, swam in, bathed in, and once upon a time, trusted to make decisions for him. Now there weren't enough Minnows in any river he'd trade a single day he could still remember. He glanced through the thin veil of trees, he could see the water flowing, as now, as it used to. The river had been one thing left untouched, in all the years he'd known this place. From the Lonely Mountains to the sea, the one constant against the flow of time was the river itself.
If the river could carry memories, then there'd be many stories to tell. A pumpkin that grew without end. A jungle that sprouted overnight. Countless artists seeking to behold mysterious rocks. A Genie with a penchant for thievery. The last of the Dragons, and a Phoenix the Valley had united to save. A years-long obsessive mission to unravel the deeper mysteries of flight. A theatre on the water. A secret path to a field of cherry trees, a unique hat that could leave heads in the clouds, and a passing comet that seemed to shake the very world.
There'd been magic here, once.
Snufkin came to a stop, and smiled. There it was, the familiar house, not quite as it'd once been, but clearly the home that he'd been welcomed into, so long ago. An oddity, now, next to nearby houses, those near-identical little things. He'd heard such building practices called "standardization", but that was a barely-concealed code for an attack on individuality. Moominhouse stood as it always had, unique, singular, alive. He breathed deep, that same smell, welcoming him. Moominvalley.
He made way down the beaten path, glancing briefly at an empty spot, where a mailbox had once stood. So many letters he'd left in that old thing. He had a good idea exactly how many. The day Snufkin stumbled across a box of them, Moomin had stumbled over his words, trying to find something to say, some excuse, or reason. None had been found, none had been needed.
Soil gave way to wood, his footsteps thudding heavily as he slowed. Moominbridge, as he privately-thought of it, perhaps his single favourite spot of the entire valley. There were so many memories either on this bridge and around it that he held dear. One of his favourites was a recurring one; a meeting in Spring.
Snufkin leaned against the bridge, and suddenly all the hours he'd walked reached him, his breathing suddenly heavy, or he was finally aware it was heavy. He focused on the horizon, the sun creeping out in the distance. Morning had truly come, Spring had truly come. He closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the sounds of flowing water, chirping birds, the instruments of nature playing the song of Spring's awakening. Fish were already splashing, rustling bushes speaking of creatures eyeing the water for their breakfast. The wind was changing, it too waking, as if the world had been holding its breath and was releasing the gust of Spring.
"Snufkin."
He jumped, out of his trance, and nearly his bones as well. He turned, seeing a familiar face at the edge of the bridge. As was, as had ever been, someone to greet him in Spring. Rotund, and covered in soft, familiar fur, their smile written across their features, filling their snout, reaching up their eyes.
"Uncle Snufkin." Their brown eyes. Her mothers eyes. Clad in only her mother's anklet, and a familiar-looking apron, she walked towards Snufkin. "You're early, again."
"Am I? Perhaps the sun was simply late this year."
She only smiled, having long known how this game was played. She reached forward, pulling Snufkin into a hug. He complied, losing himself in the familiar sensation of fur around him. The place had changed, the people had changed, but the invitation had not. Snufkin always had a place at Moominhouse. Snufkin let out a heavy sigh. It was only now, that he truly realized how tired he was, like every muscle and bone had multiplied their weight since he'd woken.
As if reading his mind, she pulled back, still smiling. "Your room's already setup, Uncle."
Snufkin smiled. "Thank you."
The pair walked into Moominhouse, such as it was these days. The ground floor had been modified, multiple times over the years, but it was possible to see the imprints of the house as it was, even now. His companion made way to the kitchen, much like another matron Snufkin could recall. Her own children would be visiting soon, most likely, everyone was so spread-out these days, so it was hard to say for sure. Snufkin walked up the familiar staircase, one of the few things in the house that hadn't been changed much over the years. He glanced, briefly, to what used to be Moominpappa and Moominmamma's bedroom. A storage room now, with generations of trinkets inside. So many old things, lying around, unused. So many memories, just left alone, such a waste. How many possessions did someone gather in a lifetime that just ended up in a box? Maybe he should ask someone his own age at some point. He went up the second staircase, catching the sounds of snoring from the master bedroom. Same old, same old. The smell of food would soon end the snoring. Moominmamma's old books still lay in this house, every page holding a delicacy waiting to be crafted.
Snurkin reached the final staircase, the final, familiar staircase. He walked up, one stair, another, and another again. He grasped the railing as he went. Was it always such a long climb? Had there been extra stairs added when he wasn't looking? Every step was weighed down by his rucksack, his exhaustion, and his age, but still, something wasn't right. He shouldn't be this drained. He finally reached the familiar door, leaning against it, catching his breath, clutching the handle tightly. The day was young, yet it already felt so long for him. With a final, deep breath, Snufkin righted himself, and opened the door.
He knew this room well. It wasn't always his, but he'd always been welcomed to it. Still the same, still as he remembered, from decades ago. Such as it'd been kept. Oh, the wood had occasionally been replaced, and a fresh coat of paint applied now and then, but it had been preserved as best as possible. As then, as now, it was simple. A bed, desk and dresser, arranged in simple, accessible layout. With practised motion, Snufkin laid down his rucksack in the corner, the numbness formed by the weight already starting to fade. He removed his hat, placing it on the door. He glanced at the old, faded hat, its green faded, held together by multiple patches, even the latest patch had faded almost as much as the rest. The hat itself was likely to fade away soon, or so that joke went.
He turned back, looking around the room. The Valley had changed so much, Moominhouse had as well, but not this room. The room had changed so little, not just for the desire to preserve it, but for the fact that Snufkin had little to change it with. Possessions were not things he'd desired, nor collected. All he had, he'd either gotten out of need, or had been given to him, and the latter had been few in his life. Many liked to give frivolous things, but Snufkin had always been known for his practicality. Not that Snufkin had no appreciation for the so-called "finer things", but he'd only ever needed the memory of them. As long as he had the memory of something, it belonged to him. Memories of things, and the people who'd been linked to them.
Still, a physical reminder was nice to have.
He leaned his cane against the bedside cabinet, a motion practised to the point of reflex now. Snufkin pulled back the blanket, sitting on the bed, a thousand steps relieved from him, his old bones embracing the reprieve. He smiled, turning to the cabinet, reaching out his hand. He paused. His hand, so aged now, more lines visible in the skin than even before he'd left. He'd be ageing by the day before too long. He reached out, grasping a memory.
A distant, happy memory, preserved for the ages. The oldest picture in Moominhouse still on display. A picture taken just outside this very house, in another Spring, so many years ago. So many faces, and memories attached.
There was the Inspector and Mymble, or Mymblmamma, as she was very soon to be, her bump quite prominent, despite the assurances she'd been given. Next to them were Snork and old Mr Hemulan, the latter leaning on a cane. Even with his age catching up to him, he'd been such a joyful soul. This was one of the increasingly-rarer days Snork had been present in the Valley. The wildfire of his invention was keeping him away frequently, his machinations steadily becoming the backbone of industry. Wasn't this just before Snork had moved away for good? Snufkin wasn't sure.
His eyes came upon a familiar pair of witches. Alicia. If memory served, this was just before she'd advanced in her studies. She'd been quiet about the nature of her studies, but the results had sprouted wings, and Alicia had soon taken flight in her abilities. Snufkin wouldn't pretend to understand the details, but he understood Alicia's grandmother's words; Alicia was a rare talent. Alicia had sought greater and greater understanding of magic, until she'd stumbled across a unique jewel; the Prince's Sapphire. Like the other jewels of this royal line, the Hobgoblin had sought it out, and Alicia had used the jewel as her payment for lessons. "A century" of lessons. Alicia had not been seen in the decade's since, the Hobgoblin taking her who-knew-where in the Universe, but sometimes, on days celebrated, and days mourned, the night sky over the valley would dance with unique and beautiful light. On days Alicia had been here for, and those that happened in her absence, the lights still shone. Snufkin knew what he'd like to think, but knew he'd never know for sure.
The old-the ancient witch had passed long ago. To such beings, the "normal" lifespan was as a season. The Forest of Witches had been left wisely alone, even in this age, and had been left to overgrow, Snufkin couldn't even find their old house anymore. It was getting rarer and rarer to hear of witches these days. They were still around, he was sure, it was just rarer to hear about them.
He looked to Sniff, who was trying his utmost to project a mature demeanour, but Moominmama's cooking had long left its mark in the depths of the psyche of everyone in the family. So very few could control themselves around her works, and Sniff had missed a little stain at the corner of his mouth. Then again, between the food, and that barrel of whatever Moominpappa had bought for the day, Sniff had actually composed himself quite well.
His gaze went a bit further back, to a pair of faces that were, admittedly, dulled in his memory. Mymblemormor, and Joxter. Even now, if he tried to, even if only in his mind, he couldn't quite bring himself to think the words, to think of them as...as what they biologically were. He'd been lost too young. He'd never wished misfortune upon either of them, even before he knew their faces, but he'd been without them for so long before their reunion, many years of which he'd had a pair of Moomins willing to surrogate. When it finally came out who he was, where he'd come from, he'd simply hadn't any need for them. It wasn't rare for Snufkin to find those who'd had troubled relationships with their parents. He'd never really even had that. Still, he'd be lying if he said he was ungrateful to have known them, and that now, now they were gone, he didn't miss them. That lazy, occasionally-insightful man, and that ever-optimistic, off-handed woman. They were still people he'd meant something to, people who held onto his memory, no matter how far the distance between them. If things had been different… he'd spent enough time on that thought. He was just grateful he had this picture of them at all.
Near them, were Moominpappa and Moominmamma. As in name, as they had been to him. They'd passed as they'd likely wished. Old, surrounded by their loved ones, having watched them grow from children, to adults, and watched them make lives of their own. They had passed peacefully, in their home, this very home. If he recalled, that was around the time the Valley had officially become named Moominvalley. Odd, for the fact they hadn't actually founded what had become a village, but it made all the sense in the world when one understood the impact they'd made here. If not for Moominhouse, there might've been a statue somewhere. Then again, Moominmamma's garden was still around, even if her visage had been lost to time, and Moominpappa's memoirs still brought the occasional tourist. The adventures he'd had in youth, and the stories his family lived afterwards, all had been bound, printed and sent out to the world.
Snufkin had seen the movie. Alas, that was probably how people remembered the story now, if they remembered it at all. Not that the movie had been bad, per-say, but it'd lacked so many finer details of the source material. So much changed, even outright lost in the adaptation, that it couldn't truly be called the same story anymore. Stories told about stories, would there be a time when the original story was lost forever?
Moving his eyes from the pair, he smiled, he'd come to it, to the center of the piece, and the face that shone brightest in his memories.
He and Moomin, side-by-side, crowned by flowers. Crowns hand-picked, delicately-crafted, and exchanged. Moomin, his anchor in the great sea of the world. Snufkin could still recall a distant Spring, finding Moomin on the bridge, waiting, Harmonica in his paws. Snufkin had played a new song, and a new year began. The year when things started to change, for the two of them, and everyone else.
Spring was said to be a time of new beginnings, and between a midwinter venture he'd never gotten all the details of, and the Harmonica he'd left with Moomin, things had been ready to start anew. Unspoken words had been shared between them.
Then Snork came back on his flying machine, and the world seemed to follow with him. Suddenly, the quiet Valley was on the map. Snufkin could recall just a few years after, walking up the first paved road on his Spring return. A trip he'd once made back on memory alone had become guided by signs. Roads were steadily paved too and from the Valley, too and from the wider world. There was a moment, a moment where a road had been paved, and it had become possible to travel to one side of everywhere, to the other, all on a road. That moment had come, and something had been lost forever.
Even in a changing world, the two had continued to explore. Until they'd started venturing beyond the Valley. Soon Snufkin had fewer stories to share with Moomin, they'd lived so many of them together. They'd bring their stories back to the Valley. Stories of a city floating on the sea, of a forest of stone, of Snufkin and Moomin's brief stint as crew aboard a ghost ship, and the curse that got them on that ship to begin with. The story of the Last Migration; watching as the Hattifatteners endless journey finally closed, setting an island into endless storm. Their visit to The Frozen Flames, where the Groke had entered a volcano in bid to seize its light, leaving a now-frozen land with ice that glowed with firelight. So many magical journeys, as such magic became rarer in the world, though nothing had ever taken the magic that sparked between them throughout the years.
Nothing, until Moomin fell ill.
The endless energy of youth was already long behind them, so they'd already been in the Valley. It'd been nothing, seemed nothing at first, like any one of a hundred times either of them had been under the weather. They'd done as they'd always done. Slowed down, relaxed. They'd figured Moomin would be back to normal in a few days.
Then he wasn't. Snufkin could still recall a morning, finding Moomin deep in thought. Had he known then? Before even the doctor had confirmed it? Snufkin never asked. Moomin had been so calm, taking the news as if he'd been told of the next day's weather. They'd given Moomin a year. Moomin just wanted to enjoy the time he had left with Snufkin, and anyone else who'd share his company. Word got out quickly, and the children of Moominpappa and Moominmama were soon reunited.
They'd made quite the sight, the five of them together again, as they really hadn't been in a long time. What'd they'd done all the time as children, they'd had to make the time for, more and more as the years went by, until they'd simply stopped. Nobody would've said it'd been a good thing that brought them together again, but it was good to be together again. They'd forgotten how many stories they'd had to recall. Stories of a place so different from the Valley around them.
They'd done things they hadn't done in forever. Flying kites, taking trips on air ships, exploring forests and mountains, sailing to islands visited long ago, seeing what stayed the same, what had changed, seeing the world as it had become. Such things had been its own last adventure between them, until the adventure lost its lustre, and another modern town was just another modern town. Even with what was coming, they'd started meeting less often, life went on, and obligations demanded time. There'd been phone calls nearly every day between Moomin and someone else, but full gatherings ended with a picnic by the bridge. Then it was the ticking of the clock as life went by, the counting of the days, days until a certain call would have to be made.
A year came, then passed, and Moomin was still here. There were moments when Snufkin could almost believe he'd beat the sickness. Moments when he could believe Moomin's clock wasn't ticking down. Then he'd suddenly cough, yawn, or give one of any number of signs Snufkin had come to learn and dread. Moomin's very body would remind them both it was steadily, inevitably, failing.
Then came the Spring they'd never expected to meet together. Moomin was the slowest he'd ever been, but still, they'd trudged to one of the many views they'd enjoyed, silently agreeing to do as they'd had been; making the most of the time they had left. The pair had walked through the Valley again, finding little corners they hadn't seen in years, or places changed from what they once knew so well. New things, old things, as they'd always found in Spring.
Moomin had met that Summer with energy he hadn't had in a long time, doing things he hadn't done in years. Hours flying kites, swimming in the sea, camping in the forest, revisiting cherished memories of his lifetime, for the last time. He lived every day to its fullest, until the last day of Summer came to an end. Snufkin remembered that day as clear as any. Watching the last sunset together from the bridge, Moomin pondering that thought he'd seen many places, the sea still appeared so vast, and the world with it. " But I still met you, Snukin. I think I saw the best the world had to offer."
"Same here, Moomin."
Then, in those last few weeks, Moomin was effectively bedridden, and still somehow happy. Perhaps befittingly, Moomin had passed in the Autumn. As if he'd spent his remaining energy in that Summer, Moomin laid down as it came to an end. He'd settled the last of his own affairs, and shared the last of his words, before he just seemed to stop, laying back in those last days, letting the world move around him. Snufkin had given what he had to give, what he'd always had. What Moomin was always happy to receive.
Snufkin had played every song, every song he'd ever played for Moomin. From their first meeting, their first reunion, the second, the songs of summers and autumns, of adventure, wonder and mystery, laughter and joy, even sorrows, because Moomin deserved everything, just as he'd given. Snufkin had played one song at the end, everything, every day, every thought and feeling, for the one who'd given them meaning. So many words unspoken but their truths ever known, put into a song, their song. The song Snufkin had composed to see Moomin off, a 'thank you' for a lifetime.
The last song Snufkin had ever played. All his songs rested with Moomin now, and his harmonica with him.
In the waning days of Autumn, Moomin had been laid to rest. Moomin had been interred near his parents, where a place for one other was still reserved. Moomin had never liked being parted from Snufkin in life, so Snufkin wasn't surprised of his intent afterwards. Snufkin had signed his consent. When his time came, he'd be next to Moomin again. He looked to his hand, his thumb trailing over an old, precious golden ring.
His beloved Moomin.
Moomin's last gift, something for Snufkin to carry in Moomin's absence, to remind him no matter where he went, to remind him of a lifetime. Endless days fishing on the bridge, hiking in the mountains, frolicking in the woods. Endless nights dancing under moonlight among flowers and fireflies, camping across the valley and beyond, staring at stars from points all over. To remind Snufin, no matter where he went, that he'd been loved, as he had loved. Through forest long gone, flowers paved over, and wilderness carved away, the memories of all those days remained wrapped around his finger. Moomin's gift, to remind Snufkin of the home he hadn't realized he'd had for the longest time.
The home he'd had, the home he'd lost.
How many hours had Moomintroll whiled away in this very room, waiting for his return? How many had Snufkin whiled away, longing for a reunion that would never be?
Before the first snows of that Winter had fallen, Snufkin had left the Valley. He hadn't come back the following spring. Nor the one after. Nor the one even after that. In truth, he didn't remember how long it was before he returned, if he'd ever known. He preferred not to think on it. He'd just kept going, going and going, further and further. To places he'd been, they'd been, places neither had been, places Snufkin himself hadn't known of, until he found himself standing in them. Always moving onwards, and away from where he'd been, never letting himself look back, never letting the shadows of history reach him, save the moments he looked down at his hand.
It was only very, very far away, in a chance meeting with Sniff, of all people, that Snufkin had finally been convinced to turn around. Sniff... that had actually been the last time they'd met. Not a year later, and Sniff had passed, surrounded by his wealth, with his various descendants lurking like vultures for their share. Sniff had gone funny in his last days, finding it utterly hilarious, or so Snufkin had been told. Sniff had requested his body be laid to rest at the Valley he'd grown up in. Sniff, another Snufkin had never truly known, and one he'd come to regret for that fact. The two had little in common, beyond shared loved ones. That should've been enough, if only to try. Neither had. They'd shared parents in Moominpappa and Moominmamma, sisters in Little My and Snorkmaiden, and Moomin had cared for them both. They'd shared all that, and perhaps a thousand words. In the end, all Snufkin could do was leave flowers at Sniff's grave in the Valley's cemetery, able to give thanks only to a memory.
Snufkin had returned with a new spring, and as if she'd known he was coming (which, in hindsight, she clearly had), Snorkmaiden-Snork mormor had been there to greet him on the bridge. There'd been no words exchanged, none had been needed, and Snufkin accepted the embrace of an old friend, where all he'd been running from had finally caught up with him. His sorrows could finally fall to the river below. Sorrows held, sorrows shared, sorrows finally freed, to flow out to the sea.
He'd been...okay. He hadn't broken, hadn't shattered, hadn't crumbled into himself. The world, the Valley, everything had gone on, and Snifkin finally understood, in time, that he could too. Nothing was the same, nothing was better, but it was something. As the world had gone on before and after the lives of everyone else, it had for Moomin. Snufkin resumed his life in the Valley, such as it was from then on. Moomin had gone, the one his heart called home was gone, but a home, somewhere to return too, that was still there.
Snorkmormor. It was amazing how different she became from the young maiden he'd first met, and her childish romance with Moomin. Then there their eventual awkwardness that had formed between the pair of them because of that. Once he and Moomin had become an item, she'd eventually decided to go find herself elsewhere, and that story could rival one of Moominpappa's memoirs; starting with her somehow winning massively in a casino somewhere and living a few hurricane-like years after. She'd returned to the valley a completely different Snorkmaiden, except in the most important of ways. She'd eventually found a husband, became a mother, a grandmother, and even great-grandmother before her time came. Her passing, there had been times Snufkin had expected it to come. After her brother passed, after her husband passed, yet she didn't. Snufkin hadn't expected it when it finally came, nobody had. Perhaps it all made sense in the end, she'd stuck around long enough to greet a new generation of her family. She'd greeted them, and said goodbye to older ones. Another farewell, another to part from Snufkin forever more.
People used the word wrong, apparently, but Snufkin had long grasped the irony, the great irony of his life. He was the one who never stuck around, always the one coming and departing as whims suited him. He was the one who never planned for the long term, never really figuring he'd meet it. Now... now he was the only one who kept returning. There was a joke there perhaps, but it was harder to see from the inside, looking out at all those goodbyes.
He looked right next to Snorkmormor, to the playful scowl sitting there. Little My was the last, his last link to a lifetime gone by. One he'd found himself visiting more and more as time went on, as those they knew became less and less. Until each became the only link the other had, to days gone by.
Little My. Of those he'd known, she was probably the only one after Moomin, who could be closest compared to Snufkin in the life she'd lived. Perhaps it was their shared blood, perhaps they just happened to have such things in common, but in a changing world that had told them what to want, what to expect, and to work for, neither had been interested, and so neither had aspired to them. Little My could've probably taken all she'd chosen to, but she'd never wanted much of anything. Little My had never married, nor had children of her own. She'd never really outgrown her child-like spirit. (Or child-like body, entirely, but nobody ever mentioned that if they valued their health.) Instead, she'd been the tiny, eccentric aunt to many children. There'd always been life in the room if Little My was there. She never liked it too quiet, even though she'd lived alone, until Snorkmormor's husband had passed. Snorkmormor moved in with Little My soon after, giving the little Mymble someone to share her noise with full-time. Funny, how her house had always been quiet when Snufkin visited them. Snorkmormor always could hold back My's worst impulses.
(Save for one time. When Little My had seen a certain movie, with a certain subplot, involving a certain vagabond, a certain Mymble, and a certain romance. Her vengeance had been unspeakable, and the director had never dared make another movie.)
(Somehow, she'd gotten completely away with it.)
(He'd never been prouder of her.)
Little My had given a beautiful eulogy at Snorkmormor's funeral, with a look in her eye he'd come to know well after Moomin had passed. Snufkin and Little My came to be closer after that, when they were the only ones left of a generation of their family. Moominhouse hadn't been the only home with a bedroom set aside for Snufkin. If he had been asked to explain how, he couldn't have defined it, but it felt like the two came to understand each other in a way they hadn't before.
Or maybe they'd just clung to the last reminder they had of all those years. Who was to say? He wasn't about to, and there wasn't anyone else left to speak. In summer of the year prior, Little My had passed. Little My, the indestructible, the seemingly eternal, had just...passed away. She'd gone quietly. No flare, no declaration, no great battle with the inevitable. She'd just asked Snufkin to stay a little longer.
Now it was just him, the only character left of an old story. Oh, there'd been children, and grand-children from those he knew. Children who cared for him, and he them, but the last of his generation was gone. The ones he'd grown up, and grown old with. The home he'd taken a long time to understood he had, had been finally, completely, swept away. Now he stood alone on the shore, until the tide came in.
Before coming to Moominvalley, all those many years ago, he hadn't known what it meant to be alone. He hadn't understood that he was. He came and went, went and came, but few places he went to held anyone who'd remember him. Like the passing wind, he passed through, sometimes noticed, sometimes not, rarely beyond the time it took for him to do so. As then, as now, few cared to remember a passing snufkin. That was a snufkin's way, to appear, to be, before they simply slipped away.
Yet, he'd come back that first spring, welcomed, even invited right into the lives of those in the Valley. "Snufkin" became more than a label, a description of what he was. It became a name. His name. He wasn't a Snufkin anymore, he was Snufkin, a resident of the Valley, in his way. Maybe not all liked him at first, but all soon knew him. He'd done what snufkins did not do, he'd become part of the lives of others. That, and he'd kept coming back. Year after year, the years weaving together into a decade, and another decade was eventually woven, and another, and so it'd gone on and on. Every decade, every year, every day, each another song in his memories.
He'd eaten at their tables, he'd sat at their fires, shared his stories, and theirs. He'd shared adventure, wonders and mysteries, countless days of loving, laughter and living. He'd been many things to them, to the people he'd known here. He'd been an acquaintance, confidant, friend, brother and son. He'd been family. Above all, and most importantly of all, he'd been the love of the truest heart he'd ever known. The one he'd married, to the one he had been beloved.
Okay, he probably hadn't been a good snufkin, but he'd been Snufkin, and he'd been good at that.
When Little My passed, Snufkin had left the Valley once more. He'd gone further than he had in a long time, back through his life, back to where he'd come from, even, such as it was in this modern world. He'd tread back through his lifetime. Every part of that story that mattered, he'd revisited, retreading his footprints in the sands of the world. So many he'd met in that time, and so few he'd truly come to know, with few faces he could recognize anymore. Was that life in the end? Many met, few recalled? Fewer loved?
Snufkin smiled to himself. That made sense to him, and he'd been blessed to love a splendid few.
Snufkin gently placed the photo back, slipping under the sheets, feeling the last of his energy leaving him. This last trip, probably the last of the like, at least for a good long while. It'd taken a lot out of him. He'd try to recall the last time he was this tired, but he didn't have the energy. He'd sleep a while, a good long while. Then he had to be on his way. He had a visit to make. Another journey made, another story to tell.
First he'd rest. Then he'd go see Moomin.
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Author's Notes: Explanation on names.
For those of you who've only really seen the 90's series this is based on, a brief explanation of how names tend to work in Moomin media. (As far as I can tell.)
When one is a child, or at least, doesn't yet have children, they're often just called by their species name, depending on their gender. So Moomin(troll)/Moominmaiden, or Snork/Snorkmaiden for example.
I say "often" because I have no idea exactly what male Mymbles tend to be called (assuming they differentiate gender names), or even if they follow the same naming system. I applied it anyway.
When one becomes a parent, they become (species name)Pappa/Mama.
I don't think it's been confirmed anywhere, but I've seen works where Moominpappa and Moominmamma are called Moominmorfar/Moominmormor (Grandfather/Grandmother), for obvious reasons, so I went with that.
I don't think the rules are completely consistent across the franchise, and its many adaptations, but here's the system I used if you were confused/curious.