>Morning came quietly to Ponyville.
>The first rays of sunlight trickled through the crooked blinds of a small workshop tucked behind the market square.
>Inside, the smell of pine and sawdust lingered, heavy and sweet. A slow, rhythmic scritch..scritch..scritch filled the room as Anonymous, known to everypony simply as Anon, worked a chisel against a block of maple.
>The toymaker’s shop was narrow but orderly. Shelves lined with wooden figurines watched from every wall: little Wonderbolts with painted goggles, fillies on scooters, tiny dragons, timber wolves, even a miniature Princess Celestia with a crooked crown. >Some of them were shaped from Equestrian life; others were odd, angular things with wheels, wings, and strange armor that came from a world no one here had ever seen. 
>He never explained those. When asked, he’d shrug and say,

“Old ideas.”

>Anon leaned back on his stool, flexing his wings. They ached faintly, a dull, familiar kind of pain that came from working too long.

“All right,”
>he muttered, setting down the chisel.

“You’re starting to look like something.”
>The carving on his bench was of a knight, not an Equestrian guard, but a human one. Helmeted, sword raised. He hadn’t meant to make it, not really.
>His hooves just… remembered how.
>He brushed the shavings into a small pile, humming tunelessly to himself. The sound of the town drifted in through the open window: merchants setting up stalls, a wagon creaking past, a foal laughing somewhere in the distance. 
>Ponyville was gentle that way, noisy without being loud. Predictable, in a good sense. He’d grown used to the rhythm, even found comfort in it.
>Anon reached for his mug and grimaced. Empty.

“Figures.”

>He glanced at the cupboard bare. Just a few crumbs and a half-eaten apple from yesterday. His stomach giving him an accusing growl.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” 
>he sighed. 
“I’ll go out.”

>He didn’t quite move just yet. Leaving meant talking. Talking meant smiling and nodding, pretending he didn’t mind when ponies called him 
“That quiet pegasus who makes the toys.”
>He liked them well enough, but crowds always left him feeling like a nail in the wrong board.
>He picked up the knight again, running a hoof over the grain.
>It was smooth now, ready for sanding. It would keep until later.
>He stood, grabbed his satchel, and trotted toward the front door.
>A bell above it jingled softly as he pushed it open, blinking at the light.
>Ponyville in the morning was always a sight, thatched rooftops gleaming in the sun, ponies chatting, a light breeze carrying the scent of baked goods from Sugarcube Corner.
>That last part made his stomach tighten.
"Sugarcube Corner… right. Pinkie’s shift."
>He grimaced. Not because he disliked her, far from it. She was kind, unbearably so.
>The sort of pony who could find a reason to celebrate if the wind blew in a new direction. But she tended to hover when he came by.
>Always smiling a little too long. Asking too many personal questions. Once she’d baked him an entire “ for being such a good listener cake, even though he’d barely said a word.
>He started walking anyway. The path through the square was already busy with ponies greeting one another, trading morning pleasantries.
>Most gave Anon a wave or nod, nothing too deep. He preferred it that way. They thought he was just shy, maybe a bit odd.
>None of them guessed that under the feathers and fur was someone who’d once had hands.
>A voice called out, bright and friendly.

“Good morning, Anon!”
>He turned to see Roseluck tending her flower stall. Her cart overflowed with fresh blooms, bright reds and yellows that made the street smell alive.

“Morning,”
>he said, giving a polite nod.
“Got your order done yet? The little cart for my niece?”

“Finished it last night. Needs paint, though.”

Her smile widened. “You really are the best, you know that?”

>He shook his head.
“Just good with wood.”

>Roseluck laughed that easy Ponyville laugh that made everything sound lighter.
“You should come to the market picnic this weekend! Everypony’s going. I think Applejack’s bringing her apple fritters.”

“I’ll… think about it.”

>He wouldn’t, of course. She knew it too. But she waved anyway and went back to her flowers, content to take his answer at face value.
>That was another thing he liked about Ponyville. They didn’t pry.
>He passed by the fountain, then the library, Twilight’s place, though he hadn’t been inside much since she moved in. She’d stopped by his shop a few times, curious about the old tools he used.
>Once she’d asked if he might lend her a few carvings for “anthropological comparison.” He’d declined politely, not eager to explain how he knew about biplanes.
>Finally, the pink and white building loomed ahead. Sugarcube Corner. The smell of frosting and warm bread hit him like a wave. His stomach overruled his nerves.
>He pushed the door open quietly.

>The bell jingled.
>The counter was empty.

>"Good. She’s not here".
>Anon approached the glass display, scanning the rows of muffins and pastries.
“Just one blueberry,”
>he murmured, already setting down his bits.
>A blur of pink shot up from behind the counter.

“Nonny!”

>He nearly dropped the bits.
>Pinkie Pie popped up with her trademark grin, her mane as poofy as cotton candy.
“Oh my gosh, I knew you’d come in today! My right ear was twitching, which always means you’re craving something sweet! Either that or there’s an ant invasion in Baltimare again!”

>Anon blinked.
“...Uh. Muffin, please.”

>She gasped, eyes wide.
“You knew! You knew I just pulled a fresh batch from the oven! You’re psychic!”

>He managed a small smile.
“Lucky guess?”

>She leaned across the counter, hooves chin-rested, smiling with that dreamy look she probably thought was subtle.
“You’re so mysterious, Anon. Like a pony who wandered into the wrong party."

He cleared his throat. “Just a muffin, Pinkie.”

“Right! Muffin!”
>she said, spinning in a circle so fast he swore her tail left a blur. She returned with one steaming, perfect blueberry muffin wrapped neatly in parchment.
“Extra sugar topping, just the way you like it!”

“I never said....”

“You didn’t have to!”
>She said with a wink.
“Your face said it!”

>Anon sighed. There was no winning with her.
“Thanks.”

>He paid, took the muffin, and began backing toward the door. Pinkie called after him.
“Come by later! We’re having a cupcake tasting contest for the foals! I saved you a seat next to me...uh, I mean, next to the snacks!”

>He escaped just before she could make it more awkward.
>Outside, he exhaled.
“You’re gonna give me an ulcer, Pinkie.”
>Still, he couldn’t help smiling a little as he bit into the muffin. Warm. Sweet. Worth it.
>He walked toward the outskirts of town, finishing breakfast as he went. Beyond the last cottage, the path turned to dirt and dipped toward the edge of the Everfree Forest.
>That was where he got most of his wood, not from any supplier, but from fallen branches and dead trees deep enough that nopony cared to look.
>It wasn’t exactly safe, but it was free. And he’d always been more comfortable working alone anyway.
>He paused at the forest’s edge, the trees looming tall and tangled.
>Their shadows were deep even in daylight, the air faintly damp and wild. 
>Somewhere beyond those trunks lay the old paths he’d walked a hundred times, the ones that felt like another workshop, quiet, hidden, predictable.
>He took a breath, adjusted the strap of his satchel, and stepped into the cool shade.
>Behind him, Ponyville’s cheerful noises faded, swallowed by the forest’s hush.
>Tomorrow, maybe he’d finally remember to buy groceries.

>The forest greeted him with stillness.
>Once the last of Ponyville’s sounds faded, all that remained was the soft crunch of his hooves and the gentle rhythm of wind threading through the leaves.
>Light pooled in thin, dusty shafts, cutting through the canopy in drifting gold. Here, the air smelled of moss and damp earth.
>Anon breathed it in and felt something ease in his chest. Out here, no one expected him to talk or smile. Out here, even the silence felt polite.
>He followed the narrow path that wound between gnarled roots and ferns. The forest was old, older than anypony he’d met, a wild thing that tolerated visitors only because it couldn’t be bothered to chase them all away.
>Still, he’d come here so often that the trees almost felt like neighbors. He’d learned which groves flooded after rain, which logs hid snakes, which glades were safe to work in.
>A squirrel darted across the trail and chittered at him from a low branch. Anon offered it a half-smile.

“You and me both, buddy.

>He kept walking, humming a tune from a different place, something half remembered from radios and rainy commutes.
>He had forgotten the words years ago. Maybe they’d never meant much anyway.
>When he found a fallen cedar thick enough to harvest, he paused to test the bark. Dry, splintering easily...perfect. He set down his satchel and pulled a small hatchet from the strap.
>The tool’s handle was wrapped in worn leather, shaped once for fingers, now clumsy between hooves and feathers. Even so, he wielded it with practiced rhythm.
>Each strike echoed dully, wood giving way in fragrant curls. He worked methodically, steady and sure, letting muscle memory take over. Chips of cedar scattered around him like pale snow.
>After a while, he sat back to rest and wiped sweat from his brow. The log would yield enough timber for several days’ worth of toys, maybe more.
>He could already picture the grain polished to a soft sheen under varnish, a simple pleasure he never got tired of.
>He took a sip from his canteen and let his gaze wander upward. The canopy swayed, leaves whispering secrets to one another. 
>Shafts of light shifted and danced on his wings. Somewhere far off, a bird sang a three-note call that echoed faintly, lonely and lovely.

>Anon closed his eyes and listened.
>If he didn’t think too hard, he could almost pretend the forest was Earth, one of those quiet trails he used to hike when he needed space from the world.
>But there was always something slightly off here: the hum in the air, the way magic made even stillness feel awake.
>He could feel it, faintly like static on his feathers, prickling against his skin.
>He opened his eyes and grabbed at the small carving knife he always kept tucked behind his ear. It was an Earth blade, salvaged from the strange day he’d arrived here.
>Somehow, it had come with him, a sliver of the old world carried into the new.
>He drew it out and picked up a scrap of cedar. Without thinking, he began to carve. The knife moved easily, guided by habit rather than design.
>Shavings fell into his lap. Bit by bit, a shape took form, not a pony this time, but a little figure standing upright, arms at its sides, its face blank.

>A human silhouette.

>Anon studied it for a long moment. Then he sighed and slipped it into his satchel.
“Old habits,”
>he muttered.

>The forest murmured in reply a low rustle of leaves, a branch creaking somewhere deeper in. He looked up. The light had dimmed a little; clouds were sliding across the sun.
>He decided to gather a few more logs before heading back.
>As he worked, his thoughts drifted to Ponyville, to the ponies who waved when he passed but never really knew him.
>He liked them, genuinely. They’d taken him in without question, no matter how strange he seemed. But even after all these seasons, a part of him still waited for the dream to end.
>He caught himself smiling faintly.
“You’re thinking too much again,”
>he told the stump.

>The stump didn’t disagree.

>When his satchel was finally full of neat cedar rounds, he slung it across his back and started for home. The forest light had turned honey-colored now, soft and low.
>His wings ached pleasantly from the day’s labor. He thought about the cup of tea he’d brew when he got back, the quiet workshop waiting for him, maybe he’d even sand that little knight statue before bed.
>For once, the day had gone smoothly. Peaceful. Uneventful.

>Then the forest went quiet.

>Not calm, quiet hollow quiet.

>The wind stilled. The birdsong cut off mid-note. Even the leaves seemed to hold their breath.
>Anon froze, ears twitching. His instincts, dulled by months of easy solitude, suddenly sharpened.

>Something cracked behind him.

>He turned slowly, scanning the shadows between the trees. The underbrush was thick, the light thin. Nothing moved.
>Then another crack, closer this time. A low, wet growl vibrated through the air.
>Anon’s wings flared on reflex.
“...Timber wolves,”
>he whispered.
>Three sets of green eyes blinked into existence among the trees, glowing faintly like lanterns.
>He took a step back, heart hammering, every muscle tensing. The wolves stepped forward, wooden bodies creaking, sap glistening like sweat. Their breath smelled of rot and damp moss.
>Anon’s eyes darted to the cedar log he’d split earlier, his hatchet still embedded in it.

>Too far.

>The wolves fanned out, circling.
“Easy, I'm not worth the trouble.”
>he muttered, more to himself than them."

>They disagreed.

>The first lunged.

>He dove aside, wings flaring wide. Its claws scraped the earth where he’d stood a heartbeat before. He grabbed a fallen branch with his teeth and swung it as the second wolf charged.
>The impact shattered the stick and sent splinters flying, but the creature only staggered.

“Right,”
>he grunted through clenched teeth.
“Of course that’d work.”

>He backpedaled, scanning for another weapon, anything. The wolves growled, advancing again, eyes burning brighter. The air filled with the crack of shifting wood.
>For a moment, Anon felt an old, cold thought rise in his chest:

"So this is how it ends."

>But the moment passed. He wasn’t the kind to quit moving.
>He feinted left, grabbed the hatchet from the log, and swung as one of the wolves lunged.
>The hatchet bit deep into bark. The creature yelped, splintering apart in a burst of green light. The others howled, circling faster now.
>Adrenaline pounded through him. He ducked, rolled, swung again. Each breath burned. Every movement was clumsy but desperate, driven more by instinct than technique.
>He managed to clip another wolf’s leg, but its jaws caught his flank in return. Pain flared white-hot; he shouted, stumbling back.
>He twisted free, but his side was bleeding now, crimson streaking against feathers. His vision swam.
>The third wolf leapt. He raised the hatchet half a heartbeat too late...

>...then the forest exploded with light.

>A thunderous crack split the clearing. The wolves howled, recoiling. Through the haze, a figure stepped forward, cloaked in shadow and the scent of herbs, chanting in a low, rolling rhythm.
>Anon’s knees gave out. He heard another chant, saw a flash of green fire, and then nothing but darkness.

____________________________________________________

>The dark didn’t come all at once.
>At first, it shimmered that strange kind of darkness you get when a dream forgets it’s supposed to fade.
>Anon felt weightless, floating through half-remembered sounds. The hum of fluorescent lights. The rasp of sandpaper. The >smell of varnish and rain. He could almost hear music, quiet, tinny, from a radio on a windowsill.
>Then came the flash. A sudden, sharp white flash. Something fell. A voice shouted his name, not Anon, but another name, lost in the static.

>He reached for it.

>Then cold.

>Then silence.

>Then....

>A splash of freezing water to the face.

>He jerked upright with a violent cough, feathers flaring wide.
“What the—!?”

“Calm your wings, and hush your yell,”
>said a smooth, steady voice.
“You’re in no danger, you just fell.”

>He blinked through the blur. The world swam for a moment, then settled into shapes: shelves packed with jars, the faint glow of firelight, masks staring down from wooden walls.
>The air was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and something sharp, ginger, maybe?

>And before him stood a Zebra.

>Her expression was unreadable but not unkind. One hoof held an empty bowl; the other rested easily at her side.

“Welcome back to waking sight,”
>She said softly.
“The forest does not spare its egregious bite.”

>Anon blinked again, then groaned.
“Zecora… right. You’re the one who lives out here.”

>She nodded, setting the bowl aside.
“The forest and I share our peace. It's noise and fury, my release.”

>He took in his surroundings, disoriented. His side was wrapped tightly in clean white bandages, the air faintly cool against the wet fur.
“You dragged me out?”

>Her lips curved faintly.
“Dragged? No. The wolves were gone when I arrived. I only kept your breath alive.”

>Anon ran a hoof through his damp mane.
“Appreciated.”

“You should rest,”
>she said, turning toward a bubbling pot nearby.
“The timber’s bite was deep, but clean. You’ll heal in days, if you stay serene.”

“I’ll manage.”

>Zecora glanced back over her shoulder.
“The wounded always say the same, until they limp and curse their pain.”

>He frowned, but said nothing.
>She ladled something from the pot, a dark, earthy brew, and poured it into a small wooden cup, placing it near his hoof.

“Drink. It dulls the sting and clears the mind. Though bitter now, the calm’s behind.”

>Anon eyed it skeptically.
“You sure this won’t knock me out again?”

“Only if your stubborn tongue resists the taste,”
> She replied, unbothered.
“Then, yes, your wakefulness I’ll waste.”

>He huffed a quiet laugh despite himself and took a careful sip. The liquid burned at first, then spread warmth through his chest and limbs.
>The ache dulled, the sharp edge of panic softening into a manageable hum.
>For a while, neither spoke. Just the sound of popping fire and the sound of insects fill the ambiance.
>Zecora worked quietly, crushing dried roots with the slow rhythm of one used to silence.
>Anon sat, watching the glow of the fire dance over the hut’s curved walls. It felt… foreign. Old. But not unwelcoming.

>When she finally spoke again, her tone was mild.
“You wander where the timber roams. Few ponies stray so far from homes. Tell me, stallion, was it need, or pride that drew you past the reed?”

“Wood,”
>he said simply.
“The good kind’s free out there.”

>Her eyes glinted with amusement.
“A modest truth, though thin and plain. You risked your life to save your grain?”

>He met her gaze evenly.
“I risked my life because I didn’t expect to be attacked. I was careful.”

“The forest laughs at careful hearts,”
>She said.
“It bites at those who think they’re smart.”

“Yeah,”
>he muttered, rubbing his side.
>“I noticed.”

>A silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable, just measured.
>Then Zecora’s gaze flicked toward his satchel resting near the wall. His carving knife lay half-visible within it.
>the handle gleaming faintly under the firelight. She studied it, then looked back at him.

“That tool,”
>She said slowly.
“It hums of places beyond the unknown. Tell me, stallion, is this craft your own?”

>Anon’s ears twitched.
“Just a keepsake.”

“Strange, for keepsakes born of steel, not hoof or horn, but human feel.”

>He stiffened.

“Human?”

>Zecora didn’t flinch.
“I’ve read the signs in dreams and rhyme. A soul misplaced by space and time.”

>He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“You’ve got quite an imagination.”

“Perhaps,”
>she said, unruffled.
“But truths, when hidden, still leave scent. And yours clings close, though words repent.”

>He looked away, eyes fixed on the fire.
“Whatever you think you know, I’d rather you keep it to yourself.”

>Zecora inclined her head, accepting that without offense.
“Peace, craftspony. I guard what’s sown. Secrets told are seeds best grown.”

>For a long time, that was that.
>She went back to stirring her brew. He went back to pretending not to stare.
>Every few moments, her voice would hum softly low, rhythmic, nearly hypnotic. A tune older than Ponyville itself.
>He felt its calm against his ribs, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

>Eventually, she spoke again.
“You’ve not eaten since the sun was high. Rest here tonight, let hours fly. Tomorrow, I will check your wound. Until then, hush for the moon is tuned.”

>He hesitated. Staying meant trust. But his body was too heavy, his side too sore, to argue convincingly.

“All right,” he said. “Just one night.”

>Zecora smiled faintly.
“So say all guests, before they heal. The forest’s time has slower feel.”

>He gave a quiet snort.
“You always talk like that?”

>Her smile turned teasing.
“Rhythm is nature’s native tongue. The forest listens when it’s sung.”

>Anon settled back onto the cushion, staring into the firelight.
“Guess I’ll take your word for it.”

“You may,”
> She said simply.

>For the first time since waking, he allowed himself to breathe fully. The pain dulled into something tolerable; the room’s shadows swayed gently with the flicker of the fire. Outside, the forest sighed.
>Zecora finished her work, dimmed the lamps, and sat across from him, not intruding, not watching, simply present.

>Anon’s eyes drooped.

>Just before sleep claimed him again, she said, almost idly:
“Two worlds have shaped the craft you hold. In one, you bled; in one, you mold. Rest now, between both near, both far. Dream softly, wandering carpenter.”

>His voice was low, almost a murmur.
“I didn’t tell you that.”

Her reply came quietly and amused:
“Nor did I need. The forest tells.”

>He wanted to ask what that meant, but sleep pressed heavier now, dragging him back down into the warmth of the cushion and the steady rhythm of her brewing fire.

>This time, the darkness didn’t feel so empty.

>The days slipped by like sand through a sieve.
>Anon woke each morning to birdsong outside the hut and the faint, herbal smoke that always drifted from Zecora’s cauldron. At first, he resented the stillness.
>the way his body demanded rest while his mind strained for work. But the forest moved on its own clock, and Zecora lived by it. He learned quickly that impatience meant nothing here.
>The first two days were quiet. Zecora spoke little except to check his bandages or leave a bowl of stew near his cushion. Her manner was precise, never overbearing.
>He appreciated that. She didn’t fuss, didn’t pry. She let silence do the talking, and after years of solitude, he found that silence surprisingly comfortable.
>By the third day, his soreness had eased enough that he could walk the perimeter of the hut. Zecora found him outside, testing his wing with a grimace.

“You stretch too soon, too fast, too far.” “A scar delayed is better than scarred.”
>She said from behind him.

>He sighed.
“You’ve got a rhyme for everything, don’t you?”

>Zecora’s smile was slight but sharp.
“Rhythm steadies hoof and heart. It keeps the mind from falling apart.”

>He chuckled.
“Guess that explains your sanity out here.”

“Indeed, but tell me, can your tongue keep beat, or will your words fall off their feet?”
>She replied, setting down a bundle of herbs.

>He raised a brow.
“You want me to try rhyming for a while?”

>Her eyes glittered with amusement.
“Only if you wish to fail in style.”

>He gave her a look.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”
>She took a seat beside the fire and gestured with a hoof.
“Begin, traveler of wood and nail. Speak your thought; let rhyme prevail.”

>Anon cleared his throat, thinking.
“All right… uh… I’m grateful for your aid and tea…”
>He paused, searching for something that fit.
“...which healed my flank and possibly… me?”

>Zecora winced theatrically.
“A start, though weak. The rhyme you seek limps like a mule with sore physique.”

>He barked a laugh.
“Okay, fine. Let me try again.”

>He squinted, tongue caught between his teeth.
“I, uh… came here hurt, and now I’m better… thanks to your… uh…This is impossible.”
>He stopped, groaning.

>Zecora’s shoulders shook with a silent laugh.
“Patience, craftspony. For this is your chance for rhyming is rhythm, song, and dance

“Yeah, well, I’ve got two left hooves.”

“That much I hear.”

>Over the next few evenings, their lessons became ritual. After supper, she’d challenge him to rhyme whatever thought crossed his mind, his day’s work, the taste of her tea, the weather. He failed spectacularly each time.
>His attempts came out crooked, clunky, and half-finished, but the hut filled with laughter more than once, the kind that eased the lingering stiffness in his chest.
>On the fifth day, when he managed a single couplet that almost worked, Zecora lifted her cup in mock salute.
“Progress slow, but progress still. The forest bends to stubborn will.”

He grinned.
“Not bad for a winged mute.”

“Perhaps soon you’ll rhyme complete.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

>By then, the tension between them had faded into something easy. Zecora no longer spoke in riddles; Anon no longer dodged her gaze. They shared long silences without discomfort, him carving quietly near the doorway, her tending her herbs or reading a worn scroll by the fire.
>Sometimes she’d catch him watching her work. There was something hypnotic in her precision, the way she measured powders by feel, never spilling a grain. When he asked how she did it, she answered simply,

“Balance is born from living still. The world will teach you to learn its will.”

>He didn’t fully understand, but the words stuck with him.
>On the sixth day, she allowed him outside. His wound had scabbed, still tender but solid.
>They walked a short distance from the hut, the air sharp and faintly sweet. He carried his hatchet with him more out of habit than need. Zecora gathered bark and herbs, humming softly as she moved.

“You hum that every day,” he said.

“It is an old tune,” she replied. “The forest keeps its memory through song. Without voice, the silence grows strong.”

Anon nodded.
“Guess that’s true anywhere.”

She gave him a sidelong glance.
“Even for one who hides his name?”

>He stiffened, then sighed.
“It doesn’t mean much anymore.”

“Then perhaps you’ll carve a new one here.”

“Maybe,” 
>he said. And for the first time, he didn’t sound entirely unconvinced.

>That night, the seventh since the timber wolves, the air turned cool. A soft drizzle tapped against the leaves outside, filling the hut with the rhythm of rain.
>Anon sat by the fire, the small knife in his wings moving carefully over a piece of wood. Zecora watched from across the hearth, quietly preparing tea.
>When he finally stopped carving, he exhaled and brushed the dust away.
>Zecora tilted her head.

“What keeps your wings so still tonight?”

>He turned the piece over in his hoof, a small wooden figure of her. Not perfect, but close: the stripes etched in careful detail, the curve of her mane captured in patient strokes.

“I figured you deserved something better than a failed rhyme,” he said.
>She blinked, genuinely surprised.

“A gift, from a stranger now turned friend?”

>He nodded and slid the figure toward her.
“For saving my hide.”

>Zecora took it gently, studying the grain as the firelight caught on the smooth surface. 
“Your craft is keen, your heart more so. But tell me, stallion, why this show?”

>He hesitated, then smiled faintly.
“Because I’m heading back tomorrow. Figured I should leave something behind before I start forgetting how to rhyme.”

>She chuckled softly.
“Forget? I doubt you could. The forest marks what once it should.”

>He looked into the fire, then said, awkwardly,
“Actually… I’ve got one more rhyme in me.”

>She raised an amused brow.
“Then speak, before the moon grows shy.”

>He took a breath, his tone half-sheepish, half-earnest.

“I came here bruised, I leave here whole,
Thanks to your care in heart and soul.
If fate allows, when stars align,
I’d like to see you… one more time.”

>The rhyme hung there, unpolished but sincere.

>For once, Zecora didn’t answer. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again. The rhythmic cadence she always carried faltered. She looked at the carving in her hoof, then back at him.

>The silence stretched. Then softly she laughed, a sound warm and real.

“You’ve stolen my rhyme,”
>She said, shaking her head.
“I cannot find the word in kind.”

>He smiled.
“Guess that means I did it right.”

>Zecora set the carving down beside the fire and met his eyes.
“It does,” she said simply.

>They sat together in the quiet that followed two souls from opposite worlds, bound for a moment by shared stillness and the hush of rain.

>Outside, the forest murmured low, as though listening.

>Morning came with a silver light.
>The rain had washed the forest clean, leaving droplets clinging to every leaf, the air sharp and new.
>The path leading out of Zecora’s clearing shimmered faintly under the sun, the same one Anon had limped down a week ago, now bright and open.
>He adjusted the strap of his satchel and stretched his wing carefully. It held, the ache reduced to a ghost of itself.
>Zecora stood by the door of her hut, the carved figure of herself now tied to a slender cord around her neck, polished smooth by her hoof.

>Anon gave a small, genuine smile.
“Guess this is goodbye, then.”

“For now,” she said.
“But the forest keeps its guests in thought. Paths once walked are never lost.”

>He nodded.
“I’ll take your word for it.”

>They stood in comfortable quiet for a few heartbeats, the sound of dripping leaves filling the space between them.
>There wasn’t much left to say. Everything that mattered had already been understood in the silences of the week in shared meals, in half-finished rhymes, in laughter that neither of them had planned.

>Anon took a step toward the trail.
“Thank you, Zecora. For the help. The tea. The…everything.”

>Her smile softened.
“And thank you, stallion born of storms, for carving peace in stranger forms.”

>He chuckled.
“Still rhyming to the end.”

“Always.”

>She tilted her head then, studying him, this strange, quiet creature who’d stumbled into her life and left behind more than sawdust and questions.

“Wait,”
> She said, before he could turn.

>He stopped.
“Yeah?”

>Zecora stepped forward, her hoof light against the forest floor. The morning breeze carried the scent of her herbs: sharp mint, sweet clover, and something warm beneath.

>Without a word, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

>It wasn’t long, just a brief, steady contact, a punctuation mark on a week neither of them would quite name. When she pulled back, her expression was unreadable but kind.

“For luck,”
>she said.
“And for return.”

>Anon blinked, half-flustered, half-amused.
“That’s… new.”

>Her eyes sparkled.
“Even rhyme must rest at times.”

>He laughed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Right. I’ll… keep that in mind.”

>She took a small step back, giving him space again.
“Go safely, craftspony, with care in your stride. The forest recalls those who’ve shown kindness inside.”

>He hesitated for just a breath, then smiled.
“I’ll be back. Eventually.”

>Zecora’s voice was soft.
“Then I will have tea for you ready, and perhaps by then your rhymes will be steady.”

“No promises.”

>Her laugh followed him down the path, light and fond.
>He turned once at the bend, just before the trees swallowed the clearing from view.
>Zecora was still there, framed by the sunlight, a glint of polished wood at her throat.

>Anon lifted a wing in quiet farewell.
“See you, Zecora.”

>She smiled small, warm, knowing, and for the first time since he’d met her, she didn’t rhyme.
“See you, Anon.”

>The forest wind carried the words after him like a whisper that lingered long after the path curved out of sight.
___________________________________________________________________________

>A week had passed since the forest.
>The toymaker’s life had returned to its rhythm, or so he told himself.
>The smell of sawdust hung in the air again. The clock on the wall ticked softly in sync with his chisel strokes. Each morning came with the same slow quiet he’d always loved.
>But the silence didn’t feel quite the same anymore; it was missing the low hum of rhyme that had filled his thoughts for days.

>He shook his head and muttered,
“Focus, Anon.”
>The knight figurine on his bench didn’t argue.

>By noon, his stomach reminded him he’d run out of food again.
“Right,”
>he sighed, slipping on his saddlebags.
“Groceries. And this time, I’m not forgetting the Coffee.”

>The market was its usual tangle of noise and color. Vendors called, foals laughed, and the smell of fresh bread rolled through the square like a warm tide.
>Anon moved carefully through the crowd, nodding to the ponies he knew, a quiet, familiar presence, invisible enough to be comfortable.
>He loaded apples, oats, and a small sack of coffee into his bag, feeling vaguely proud of himself.
>He was counting bits into the baker’s hoof when a shriek nearly made him drop everything.

“NONNY?!”

>The world blurred pink.

>Before he could blink, a cotton-candy mane smacked him in the face, and Pinkie Pie’s forelegs locked around his neck like a vice. His groceries swung dangerously.

“There you are!”
>she yelled, her voice halfway between relief and outrage.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was?! You vanished! I searched everywhere! I even asked Gummy if he’d seen you, and he just blinked! Twice!”

Anon choked on air. “Pinkie...can’t...breathe...”

“Oh! Sorry! Non-non!”
>She released him just long enough to gasp dramatically.

“You were gone for a whole week! I checked your shop every day! The Cakes thought you’d gone on vacation, but I knew you wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye! I looked in the woods! I looked in the sky! I even checked the well behind Town Hall, just in case you fell in again!”

“I...what? I never fell into a well.”

“Not that you remember!” “You’ve been missing! No letters, no groceries, no muffins, no.... no you!”
>She snapped, eyes wide and wild with worry.

>Anon stared, the edges of his patience already fraying.
“Pinkie, I was fine.”

“Fine?!”
>She gasped, pressing a hoof to her chest as though wounded.
“You disappeared, and you were fine?!”

>He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to stay calm.
“I got hurt. I needed to rest for a bit.”

>Pinkie froze mid-ramble. Her voice dropped a note, concern overtaking the panic.
“Hurt? You were hurt?!”

“Not anymore,”
>He said quickly.

>Her eyes glistened, her voice wobbling.
“You...you didn’t tell anypony! I could’ve helped! Or at least baked you a 'get well soon' cake! Or a stay-alive cake! Or a ‘please-don’t-get-eaten-by-Timberwolves’ cake!”

>Anon’s lips twitched.
“I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

>But Pinkie wasn’t letting go that easily. She stepped closer, her expression tightening with something protective and oddly fierce.
“You can’t just vanish, Anon. You live alone. What if something worse had happened?”

>He met her gaze evenly.
“Something did happen.”

>That threw her off-balance.
“Wha....what do you mean?”

>Anon hesitated. He could still smell the herbs, the cedar smoke, and hear the low rhythm of a voice that spoke in couplets. Explaining it would only lead to questions and probably another panic attack from Pinkie.

>So instead, he exhaled and smirked faintly.

“In shadows deep, the wild did roam,
A healer’s hut became my home.
Through fire’s warmth, I healed and stayed,
And learned the cost of choices made.”

>Pinkie blinked. Once. Twice.

“…What?”

>He cleared his throat, returning to his normal tone.
“I was out in the forest. Got hurt. Someone helped me. I’m fine.”

Pinkie tilted her head, squinting.
“You’re rhyming.”

“Occupational hazard.”

>She gasped.
“Oh no. You caught it! You stayed with Zecora! Didn’t you?!”

>He blinked.
“That’s… not... she's not contagious?”

“Tell that to your rhyming! You didn’t rhyme before! Now you’re all ‘deep shadows, wild roam, home dome thing!’”
>She began pacing around him like a detective with too much sugar.
“Oh my gosh, are you under a rhyme spell? Blink twice if she’s controlling your mind!”

“Pinkie”

“Blink three times if she’s secretly evil!”

“Pinkie.”

“Okay, four times if you like her tea!”

>Anon stopped walking, sighed through his nose, and said dryly,
“She’s fine. I’m fine. I just needed time to heal.”

>Pinkie huffed, her curls bouncing with indignation.
“You still can’t just disappear without telling, Anon! You had me and half of Ponyville thinking you’d been... been kidnapped by squirrels or something!”

>He raised an eyebrow.
“By squirrels.”

“They’re organized, Anon!”

“I’m sure.”

>Her pout softened, worry leaking back in.
“Just… promise next time you’ll say something? Even a little note that says ‘Hey, Pinkie, I wasn't foalnapped would’ve been nice.”

>That made him pause. Her tone wasn’t joking anymore; it trembled just enough to sting.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He said quietly.

>Pinkie sniffed, then smiled again, too bright, too quick, trying to hide the crack.
“Good! Because if you vanish again, I’m starting a search party! With banners! And cupcakes! And emotional support balloons!”

>He managed a small, weary grin.
“I’ll do my best to spare the balloons.”

>She giggled, relieved laughter this time. Then, impulsively, she wrapped him in another hug.
“Don’t scare me like that again, okay?”

>He sighed but didn’t pull away.
“I’ll try.”

>When she finally stepped back, she gave him one last suspicious look.
“You sure you’re okay? No weird rhyming dreams? No forest curses? No...”

>He raised a hoof.
“Pinkie.”

“glowing eyes?”

“Goodbye, Pinkie.”

“Oh, come on, I was almost done!”

>He turned toward home, shaking his head. Behind him, she called,

“You can’t rhyme your way out of this, mister mysterious poet pony!”

>Anon smirked to himself.
“We’ll see.”

>As he walked away, he could still hear her muttering under her breath:
“‘In shadows deep’? What does that even mean?”

>The corner of his mouth tugged upward. The words came out before he thought about them, soft enough that only the wind could carry them:

“It means I’m home.”