Rowan felt his heart pound as he crossed the final stretch of fields leading to his family’s farmhouse. The midday sun cast a gentle glow over the rolling land, and a soft spring breeze carried the scent of tilled earth and distant wildflowers. He paused by a leaning willow stump where he and Berran had once played knights, a wave of memory washing over him. *Ten years… ten years without a letter, a word.* He wondered how they would greet him now—were they angry, hurt, or perhaps resigned?


    He ventured on, every step a tug of longing and dread. The farmhouse roof emerged, its once-sturdy shingles looking smaller than he recalled. Maybe he had grown taller, broader—ten years in the elven forest had changed him more than he’d ever intended. He clutched the leaf-pendant beneath his tunic, its subtle warmth reminding him of the timeless hush he was leaving behind. His travel pack, though light, weighed on him like an unspoken confession.\nIn the yard behind the barn, Rowan recognized a broad-shouldered figure moving bales of hay. Honey-brown hair, dusted with silver. *Berran.* Anxiety prickled along Rowan’s neck as he came closer. Suddenly, Berran lifted his head, froze, and let the hay bale slip from his arms.


    “Rowan?” Berran’s voice cracked. “But we—I…” His eyes flicked over Rowan’s cloak, the shimmer in his hair, the calm, otherworldly poise in his stance.


    “I’m sorry,” Rowan said quietly, a tremor in his words. “I know it’s been so long.”


    Berran looked torn between disbelief and relief. He took two steps forward, halted, then abruptly closed the distance with a fierce grip on Rowan’s shoulders. “We thought you might be dead! No word, no sign—” His voice frayed.


    Rowan’s chest tightened. “I lost track of time in the forest. The elves— time flows differently there. I never meant to vanish so completely.” He grasped Berran’s arms, feeling the tenseness born of a decade’s worry. The two locked gazes, letting the moment carry the unspoken heartbreak and uncertain joy.


    “Go inside,” Berran finally managed, letting go and stepping back, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Ma and Da need to see you.”


    Rowan followed, heart pounding as he entered the modest farmhouse. The low-beamed ceiling, the worn wooden table, the familiar aroma of flour and herbs—it all rushed at him with a poignancy that made his breath catch. Darric—his father—was sorting tools by the table. He glanced up, blinked once, then set down a hammer with a trembling hand. Rowan saw shock fracture his father’s stoic face.


    Before anyone spoke, Rhea—his mother—appeared from the adjoining room, a basket of onions in her arms. She lifted her gaze, saw Rowan, and the basket tumbled to the floor, onions rolling unchecked. Her lips parted in a silent exhalation: “Rowan?”


    He let out a breath that felt like it had been held for ten years. “Ma…” She dropped everything and rushed to him, arms locking around his chest, body trembling as she sobbed against his shoulder. Guilt and relief tore at Rowan, tears burning in his own eyes. Over her quaking form, he saw Darric’s expression tighten with emotion, lines deepening around his eyes.


    Rhea released Rowan slightly, hands on his face. “My boy. You’re alive. You’re here.” Tears kept flowing, but her smile shone with unspoken gratitude.


    Darric cleared his throat, stepping forward. “We weren’t sure—no letters, no word…” His voice faltered, something he rarely allowed. “Thank the gods you’re all right.”


    Rowan tried to find words but only managed a shaky apology. Rhea ran her fingers through his now chestnut-and-silver hair, voice trembling. “So changed… Rowan, what happened to you?”


    “I lived with the elves. Their sense of time is… different,” he murmured. “I never realized how long I stayed. I know it’s no excuse.”


    Darric nodded but said nothing more, apparently overwhelmed by the moment. Berran, standing near the door, scowled and rubbed at his eyes. “We can talk, but let’s sit first. You must be hungry,” he said brusquely.


    They gathered around the kitchen table, ignoring the onions scattered across the floor. Rhea, regaining a bit of composure, insisted on preparing stew. Rowan offered to help, but she waved him off, wanting to fuss over him just once more. Darric set out bowls and cups with hands that still shook faintly. Berran sat across from Rowan, eyes flicking between curiosity, hurt, and relief.


    Over the meal, they spoke in halting bursts. Darric asked methodical questions: “Did you find work there? How did you eat?” Rowan explained the elven community—how everyone contributed to hunts, how foraging was shared, how magic softened the edges of survival. Rhea’s teary gaze followed every word, soaking in the fact that her son had neither starved nor been enslaved by some dark force.


    “Time slipping away,” Berran repeated after a while, voice edged with skepticism. “That’s all it was? You just… forgot us?” His tone was calm but laced with hurt.


    Rowan bowed his head. “It’s more complicated, but… yes. I got lost in their timelessness. I’m so sorry, Berran.” He forced himself to meet his brother’s gaze. “I never stopped caring, I just… I know it sounds foolish.”


    Berran’s expression flickered between anger and pity before he gave a curt nod. “We’ll figure it out,” he muttered, not fully ready to absolve Rowan but no longer pushing him away.


    Once the meal ended, the afternoon light fell across the wooden planks of the floor. Rhea hovered by Rowan’s side, occasionally touching his arm, as though to make sure he was real. Darric cleared his throat, rising to check something in the barn, clearly needing a moment alone to compose himself. Berran stepped out to the porch, letting out a long sigh into the open air.


    Rowan joined him there. The yard looked familiar yet altered—fences had been mended differently, a new patch of earth turned over. Berran leaned against a post, arms crossed. “You know, I— I carried on, kept the farm going, tried to keep Ma and Da from worrying too much… but they did. Every day.”


    Rowan nodded, guilt a lump in his throat. “I wish I could change it.”


    “Can’t,” Berran murmured. A pause, then a shaky exhale. “But maybe you can stay a while. Show us what you’ve learned. Let them see you’re still… you.”


    Rowan managed a grateful smile. “Thank you, Berran. I’m not running off again so soon.”


    When evening came, Rhea hastily prepared another modest supper, unable to hide her excitement despite the lingering tension. Darric returned from the barn, quiet as ever, though Rowan noticed the fleeting relief in his father’s eyes. They all gathered around the hearth, a space where Rowan once warmed himself after chilly chores. Now, he felt the soft glow on his face, the subtle difference in how he carried his body—an elven grace that the family eyed curiously.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    There was no grand conversation, just gentle talk of minor farm updates, neighbors’ doings, births and marriages Rowan missed. He revealed small glimpses of elven life: nights spent under shimmering leaves, illusions that taught him new ways to see the world. Rhea listened with rapt attention, occasionally laying a hand on Rowan’s knee. Berran pretended disinterest at times, yet Rowan could see the flicker in his eyes—intrigue he wouldn’t openly admit.


    When it came time to sleep, Rhea led Rowan to his old room. It felt cramped to him now, the bed too small for a grown man changed by a decade in the forest. Dust motes floated in the lamplight. “I always kept it ready,” she whispered, swallowing tears. Rowan squeezed her hand, an unspoken vow that he wouldn’t vanish again. Alone in the room, he struggled with restlessness, haunted by guilt and an odd comfort that after all this time, he was home.


    By dawn, Rowan awoke to the farm’s familiar rhythms: the cock’s crow, Berran clanking water buckets, Rhea’s soft humming. He realized with a jolt that he wanted to spend another day here, to reknit the bonds. Let the village wait.


    He joined Berran to feed the animals, recalling the old routine: dip a bucket, haul feed, check fences for loose rails. Despite the decade-long gulf, the motions came back to Rowan’s limbs naturally. For a moment, Berran allowed a faint, wry grin. “Guess you haven’t forgotten everything, huh?”


    They passed the morning in partial silence, interrupted by short bursts of conversation. Rowan asked about harvests missed, about old friends. Berran answered in a subdued voice, still harboring a cautious hope in each measured response.


    Later, Rhea coaxed Rowan into the kitchen, gently demanding that he show her some of the “forest gifts” he’d mentioned. He retrieved a pouch of seeds from Lyra—a special variety that thrived in lightly enchanted soil. Carefully, Rowan demonstrated how the elves would chant softly while planting, encouraging growth without forcing it. Rhea’s eyes brimmed with amazement. “If we can grow them by the kitchen garden… my goodness, your father would be so surprised.” She laughed shakily, the first glimmer of genuine joy he’d seen in her.


    In the early afternoon, Rowan gathered his family around the table to share a short melody on his elven flute. He closed his eyes and let the notes flow, each one resonating with the calm elegance he’d learned in the forest. Darric, arms folded at first, slowly leaned forward, as though drawn by an unseen current. Berran let out a nearly silent sigh, his tension easing a fraction. Rhea clasped her hands together, tears slipping down her cheeks once again, but this time out of wonder, not sadness.


    “That… that was beautiful, son,” Darric said when Rowan finished. “Makes a man feel… quieter inside.”


    Rowan offered a shy, appreciative nod. “That’s how it feels in the elven glades,” he said softly. “It’s not just music. It’s a way to share calm, to help us all breathe together.”


    They spent the rest of that afternoon talking more openly. Rowan explained the timeless sense of community among elves, how they shared resources, how they touched and lived more freely than humans typically did. He watched them carefully, gauging their reactions. Rhea seemed captivated by tales of communal feasts under moonlit branches; Berran gave an occasional grunt, uncertain but not dismissive. Even Darric asked, after a long pause, “So they’re… not so strange, then? Just… different.” Rowan nodded, relieved by his father’s tentative acceptance.


    That evening, for the second time, they sat at dinner as a family. Rhea insisted on bringing out a small jug of homemade cider she’d been saving, “just in case,” a subtle testimony to her enduring hope. As they sipped, Rowan found the conversation flowing more freely. Berran even attempted a wry joke about Rowan’s “glow,” though it was laced with residual hurt. Rowan took it kindly, seeing it as a step toward healing.


    After supper, Rowan and Berran slipped outside, leaning on the fence to watch the dusk settle. The sky glowed with oranges and purples, reminiscent of the elven sunsets Rowan had witnessed many times. Berran cleared his throat. “Y’know… Ma and Da are old. They missed you fierce. But they’ll come around to all this… forest talk.” His gaze slid over Rowan’s face. “I guess I will too, eventually.”


    Rowan placed a hand on Berran’s shoulder. “We have time. I’m not leaving just yet.” That small promise glinted in Berran’s eyes, tempering a decade of silent hurt with a cautious tenderness.


    Later, around the hearth, Rhea sat next to Rowan, Darric across from them, Berran leaning in the doorway. They talked about the future: Rowan’s plan to go into the village soon, speak to the townsfolk about the forest’s plight, the king’s rumored expansion. He wanted to show them the elven perspective, prove that humans could coexist with the ancient groves. Darric listened with pursed lips but nodded thoughtfully; Rhea offered words of encouragement. Berran asked a few questions about the practicality—what if the townsfolk mocked him or feared his elven aura?


    “Then I’ll handle it,” Rowan said calmly, surprising even himself with the depth of resolve in his voice. “Among the elves, I learned how to speak with empathy, how to let people feel the forest’s song. I just hope they’ll open their hearts enough to listen.”


    A hush settled, and in that hush, Rowan sensed an unspoken acceptance weaving through his family. They might not entirely grasp what he had become, but they no longer felt left behind. This was the man who had once been their bright-eyed boy, and though changed, he was still woven into their lives. Rhea smiled, a small tear slipping from the corner of her eye. Darric coughed and tapped his foot, a subtle gesture that might have been pride. Berran uncrossed his arms, glancing away as if to mask the relief in his eyes.


    Night fell, and they lingered by the dying embers of the fireplace, listening to the wind’s gentle murmur through the old farmhouse walls. Rowan felt his mother’s hand slip into his, Darric quietly placed a blanket over him, and Berran hovered by the window, peering into the darkness.


    “I’ll go with you, if you want,” Berran offered after a time, voice low. “Into the village. I might not say much, but… you shouldn’t face them alone.”


    Rowan nodded gratefully. “I appreciate that. Maybe together we can show them there’s more to the forest than legends of monsters or illusions.”


    By the second night’s end, Rowan realized how deeply he needed this extra day with his family. He needed their acceptance not just to soothe his guilt but to remind him that his heritage was part of him, that no matter how long he lived among the elves, his roots were here, in simple wooden beams and earnest embraces.


    As he slipped into his old bed once more, smaller than his elongated frame, the wind outside carried a gentle hush reminiscent of the forest’s lullaby. He closed his eyes, reflecting on how his calmness and newfound eloquence had seemed to draw his family closer rather than push them away. He had arrived burdened with shame, but now he left them with a quiet sense of hope. They still had questions and hurts, but love lingered beneath it all, an unbreakable thread bridging who he was and who he had become.


    When morning broke again, Rowan stood in the front yard, backpack resting at his feet. He shared a final, lingering hug with Rhea, who pressed a small bundle of bread and cheese into his hands, eyes bright with both tears and pride. Darric gave him a measured nod and a gruff, “Take care, son,” which spoke volumes more than any speech. Berran, true to his word, prepared to walk beside Rowan toward the dusty road leading to the village. As they set off, Rowan glanced back at the farmhouse, absorbing the sight of it with fresh eyes.


    He had come back after all these years, had bared his heart, and been neither cast out nor fully embraced without question. But there was enough tenderness and trust to begin healing. And with that warmth carried inside him, Rowan felt ready to meet the human world anew, bringing elven wisdom not just for the sake of distant groves but also for the family he’d missed for so long.


    Silently, Rowan said a word of thanks for the day and night he’d been allowed to spend mending bonds with those who had never stopped loving him. Then he turned his steps toward the village, accompanied by his brother. He walked with the surety of someone who knew that even when time seemed to slip away, roots and hearts could be retied—if only one found the courage to come home again.