THE GNOME PROJECT

The wind had changed twice that morning—once toward the hills, then back toward the valley—before Zephyr found what he was looking for. A flash of red caught in the brambles near the footbridge: the scarf one of the farm children had lost two days earlier. Too large to carry, too meaningful to leave.

He crouched and loosened it gently, fingers working through the thorns until the fabric came free. Burrs clung to the fringe; he brushed them off one by one. The cloth smelled faintly of woodsmoke and apples.

Down below, the stream traced its quiet route between stones.
The children always followed it on their walks, tossing twigs and leaves to see which would float the fastest and farthest. Zephyr watched the water and nodded to himself. “That’ll do.”

He lifted the scarf, feeling the air test its weight, and gave it a nudge. The breeze caught hold, tugging it into a slow dance. He guided it like a long serpentine kite—looped one end around a branch, then tucked the other so it would flutter but not fly away. 

From the bridge it looked like a bright banner, calling to the current.

When it settled, he stood still for a moment. The sound of the stream returned to its easy rhythm, and in that rhythm, everything seemed to fall quietly back into place.

Later that afternoon, the children came along the path, counting ripples and racing twigs. The smallest one stopped first. “There!” she cried. The scarf hung just above her reach, exactly where the sun could catch it.

Her mother laughed. “The wind must have brought it back.”

The girl only nodded, eyes wide, as though she knew better.

And from the reeds nearby, Zephyr watched the scarf lifted free and carried home. He tugged his cap a little lower against the breeze, content with the tune the wind continued to hum.