Truth be told, there is still frost on the grass. The further north he got, the more likely it became that Snufkin would find frost on the canvas of his tent in the morning. Not every day, of course; that would be a sure sign he ought to wander about some more. Just often enough that he could ignore it, tell himself it is the cusp of Spring, if not Spring itself. Not that he was rushing to get back. He only has three months out of every twelve to stretch his nature, let his voice rest and thoughts chase their own path. He savors those months, needs them. As much as he loves Moominvalley, he can't stay there all of the time. Things need rest. And Snufkin, he needs more rest than most. If he stayed all the time, he might grow to resent it, maybe even hate it. It seems silly to waste such a big world staying in one place, especially when one's nature demands constant movement. But he could compromise, make it a pivot place that he returned to, again and again.

Maybe this year is warmer than most. Or maybe he just had less thoughts than usual. Whatever the case, it is time for beginnings again. He had known it two weeks ago, as soon as he woke up. He couldn't say how he knows it; one just knows these sorts of things. Just the same as he knows when he is hungry, he knows when it was time to go. And so, bag full, heart fresh, he set out, doing his best to not mind the occasional frost.

He fidgets with his harmonica in his pocket as he walks, not quite making up his mind whether he ought to play it or not. Maybe it is too soon to go back. His gut seems heavy with the wait of some unknown catastrophe. That is silly of him, of course. There isn't a problem in sight he couldn't fix. Stay or go, he is in charge. He decides where he goes, and if he wants to go back earlier this year, that is his decision. His fingers brush over the metal of his harmonica, warm from being in his jumper. No one can tell him what to do.

Just to make the point, he stops and rests under a tree. Maybe he will pitch his tent here and spend the night. Maybe a few nights. Who knew? He won't, of course. He knows that, but still, he likes to have the option.

It has been months since he's been in these woods. No matter how different his journeys, the trips always begin on the same path, and a few hours ago he had crossed onto the road where all those paths converged. It won't be much time at all before he is back in Moominvalley. For the hundredth time, his stomach twists. Maybe he will just set up his tent and hang out for a few days, still on his lonesome. There was no reason to try to wake Moomin up.

Of course there are plenty of reasons. First and foremost being that Moomin is the only reason he returns again and again. It isn't the valley he is tied to so much as Moomin himself. His best friend. Best. Friend. He hadn't ever thought himself the type of person to have friends, let alone a best one. Irritated at his own anxiety, he pulls out his mouth organ, determined to play, but instead just walks along, holding it. Maybe Moomin doesn't want to see him. Maybe he is mad that Snufkin left once again. That is ridiculous, of course. That moomintroll couldn't hold a grudge longer than he could hold a fist full of water. Still. He thinks of Moomin and feels quite like someone has turned him into an instrument; a whining, buzzing thing. Quick, he shoves his harmonica back into his pocket.

He is never quite sure if he likes leaving or not. Or rather, it isn't that he likes leaving so much as he likes being gone. Just as he aches for open roads and other skies while in Moominvalley, he aches for his little campsite and friends when gone. It is the aching he likes, maybe. To always have something to want, something to look forward to. He needs something to keep him going, after all. And he does want to go back, he really does. He is ready to go back. It isn't rushed or wrong or too soon; it is time. So why this awful anticipation?

Another few hours, and the sun has broken over the horizon. He walks clear through the night, fighting more thoughts than he had the entire time he was gone. He sets his bag down, shakily pulls together his tent. It isn't a good job, but he'll redo it later. Stomach still rolling, he perches on the ledge of the bridge and takes a deep breath, raising his harmonica to his lips.

With his eyes closed, he can't see anything. Not the distant mountains nor the glistening water of the river. He plays, and everything is once again as it always was, and there is no reason at all to be nervous. He finishes Moomin's song and plays it again. And then again. And a fourth time for good luck. Just when Snufkin has decided that the best element of the song is the fact that Moomin likes it, he hears his name and opens his eyes. One of the notes comes out wrong, but he keeps playing, hopes his friend hasn't noticed. Moomin is smiling, waving, his arms flapping about him as he more falls than runs down the hill. Sunlight bouncing off his fur, Moomin came careening towards him, and all Snufkin wants is to hop from the ledge, take those hands in his own, kiss him on his forehead, his nose- All of a sudden, all the anxiety inside him becomes a clean, deep pool, settling itself into a quiet shape. Snufkin thinks of a word he cannot say aloud.

Clasping the handrail, Moomin bounces, excited. Nonchalantly, Snufkin pockets his harmonica, smiles.

"Hello Moomin."

It's the perfect name for him; round, belongs on a smile. And he does smile, cannot help but smile as his dear friend struggles up the bannister, sitting sideways upon it and immediately bursting with questions and stories. He listens quietly, smiling calmly as if the entirety of his mind isn't an inferno. Closing his eyes again, Snufkin listens to the sound of his friend's voice and imagines plunging himself into the river.