Yens loved this time of year. The branches were still bare, but with an almost invisible fuzz of green. Not leaves yet, but the promise of them. And the air, full of smells - earthy, but very fresh.

Yens was looking out of the window in the sunroom, which every year in late winter was turned into a nursery. Tiny pots with seedlings were everywhere, taking up space near the window, on the coffee table, on the shelves around the window.

It was nearly time for them to be transplanted to the garden. The last patch of snow melted last week, and the soil was rich and dark. Yens spent his days turning the soil over and mixing it with compost from a large crate near the shed.

And now he was doing the last inventory, with his notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other, surveying neat rows of planters and making marks about the height, stem, color, and other things that he liked to have on paper. This notebook would be very entertaining next winter, on long nights near the fireplace. It would tell him stories about a season in the garden and make him quite happy.

He leaned forward to check the tag. Of course, he knew all the plants by heart, but he liked order, and this habit was hard to break.

Each tag was carefully prepared. Not just a name, there were dates, written in small steady numbers. Row markings. Short notes: more sun, less water, slow to start, promising.

The tag in the next planter was missing. He checked another. Also no tag.

Winter had settled in properly now. The kind that squeaked underfoot and made the air feel sharp and bright. Bald Hill was smooth and white, just steep enough to be exciting, and Yens and Spinny had already gone down it several times on the sled, laughing and squeaking all the way.

Spinny especially liked the part where the world rushed past very fast and then suddenly stopped.

Eventually, Yens decided they’d had enough sliding for one day. The sun was already sinking lower, and the cold was beginning to sneak through mittens and scarves.

He tied the rope back to the sled, settled Spinny on top of it, and started walking home.

Snow began in the late evening, after Yens had his late-night tea and Spinny was ready to go to bed.
He watched in amazement from the big living room window at the huge soft snowflakes descending slowly in the dark and quiet, twirling and drifting until they finally settled on the ground.

Spinny squeaked softly. This was something entirely new. He had never seen so many tiny white things flying through the air at once.

“It’s called snow, Spinny. By morning you won’t be able to see the ground anymore. Everything will be covered in snow.”

A doubtful little squeak.

Yens wasn’t sure he liked the idea. He was fine with flying, and he did want to see the world from up above - after all, his favorite thing to do was to go to the top of his tree and look at the forest and the lands beyond.

He was okay with heights. What he was not okay with was leaving behind his comfy chair, morning coffee, cozy blanket, warm bed… and the garden.

The kitchen smelled of apples and cinnamon, and Yens was busy sliding the pie into the stove, trying not to burn his paws. He leaned in carefully, squinting at the fire and shifting the pan just a little to make it sit even.

Autumn came to the Forest in full strength, with its rusty colors and smells.

The afternoon was all golden light and quiet rustling. Yens had finished piling leaves and sat beneath the trees, with a pocketknife and a smooth hollow stick that seemed to be waiting for him.

He wasn’t carving something specific, not really. It was simply what his hands wanted to do while the leaves whispered overhead. A curl of wood fell to the ground, then another, spiraling into the soft carpet of autumn. Slowly, the stick began to shape itself into something that looked like a flute toy he had as a child.

Yens had just finished setting the table for tea: two cups, one slightly chipped but deeply beloved; a small plate of oat biscuits; and a saucer with lemon slices.

Then he turned to fetch the teapot - and stopped.

The teapot was wobbling.

Not in a gentle, steam-is-rising sort of way, but in a suspicious, something-is-definitely-inside-it way.

“Spinny?” Yens called softly.

The day was hot and humid, and smelled of moss and last autumn leaves, which Yens always left piled on the west side of the Tree for the fireflies.

Sun was in a light haze, but Yens knew it will make its appearance later, and all this made for a perfect day at the creek falls.

Spinny was already up and about, hunting for the dragonflies in the garden, when Yens called him. He happily poised himself on the top of the backpack, and they started toward the local mountain, covered with firs, aspens and larches.

The day had started with a hole in the watering can.

Yens found it just as he was about to begin his morning rounds in the garden - a slow and peaceful process involving more humming than watering, and more pausing to admire carrot tops than doing anything useful. But the hole was real and unacceptable. He fetched the repair tin, sat on the grass with the can between his knees, and set to work with quiet determination.

Spinny was somewhere nearby. Yens could hear the occasional squeaky note of a misfiring acorn catapult.

The plan was simple: to go somewhere and sit there for a while.
Alone.
Quietly.

Yens had packed a pear, a soft orange blanket, a book he might not read, and a small yellow thermos with coffee, which seemed like enough for a proper outing. He checked the wind, hummed a little tune to himself, and rolled his bicycle gently down the path.

(This is how it all begins, more or less.)

Yens had finally gotten the hammock tied just right. Not too low (he hated when his legs dragged), and not too high (he wasn’t fond of climbing, despite being very good at it).

He tested it once. It held.
He tested it again. It sighed gently, which he took as permission.
Then he settled in with a long exhale and closed his eyes.

It was going to be a perfect afternoon of important work, which, in Yens’ case, involved watching light move across the leaves and possibly thinking about moss.

That’s when Spinny arrived.