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Snufkin had felt as if something was wrong for weeks, but as he arrived in Moominvalley, that feeling cemented in his soul, burying deep like a parasite; something had happened, he was certain. It was like a blanket of despair had smothered the valley, silencing all bird song and clinging to the trees, holding them in place so they didn’t even sway in the breeze. Though it was a bright-if-chilly day, the world around him somehow felt gloomy, siphoned clean of life.
Usually, Snufkin would approach Moominvalley with the comb of his harmonica to his lips, that year’s spring tune calling out to Moomintroll. The instrument remained in his pocket, especially heavy as he followed the path towards Moominhouse.
As he walked the winding trail, a part of Snufkin longed to turn back, to run away. He didn’t know what awaited him and didn’t want to. The unease clawed at his stomach, leaving him queasy. His limbs felt heavier with each step until he was practically dragging his feet. His mind screamed at him, pleading for him to turn around. To run away and never look back.
Snufkin kept walking.
When the familiar blue house came into view, Snufkin knew the family weren’t there. The windows were shuttered, but it was more than that. The house felt abandoned. Lonely and unwelcoming and overwhelmingly sad. Snufkin couldn’t explain how he knew, but there was no denying his speeding heart or the way his stomach dropped. The Moomins were gone. This had happened before, of course, but they’d returned eventually. Perhaps this time, they had even left a note?
Would the Moomins leaving explain the way the valley mourned, though? The way the birds had stopped singing and the grass looked that little bit duller? The way Snufkin’s heart felt like something had been lost forever?
It seemed like the door should creak, but it was as silent as ever as Snufkin let himself inside. Moominhouse was empty and dark, except for a solo chair in front of the only unshuttered window. Moominmamma sat in it, staring out into the garden. She turned slowly, and though she offered him a smile, it was wrong, all wrong. Snufkin shrugged off his pack, leaving it at the door.
“Right on time,” she said softly.
“Mamma,” Snufkin croaked, having trouble finding his voice as the dread dragged him down, making the house feel even darker until he was lost in the depths of its gloom. Snufkin felt like a child in desperate need of soothing. “What happened?” He didn’t know why he asked—he didn’t want to know.
Moominmamma held out a paw and, compelled, Snufkin walked over and took it, standing before her with wide, terrified eyes. She looked so sad, her heart as broken as Snufkin’s, though he still didn’t quite understand why.
“Something terrible,” she answered quietly, not one to sugarcoat things. “The others have gone ahead, but I wanted to wait for you. I didn’t want to tell you in a letter.”
Snufkin knew, then, what she was going to tell him. He suspected his heart had known for a while, though his mind and body had refused to acknowledge it. They still fought against the truth, unwilling to hear it, unwilling to accept it. It didn’t seem possible.
Mamma squeezed his paw. Her eyes were full of tears. “There was an accident during winter. Our Moomintroll woke early and went out to play—” She cut off, unable to continue. Snufkin gripped her paw tightly; he didn’t need her to continue. He understood, even if it was impossible to comprehend.
Snufkin’s eyes started to sting with tears he didn’t want to shed, not in front of Mamma, not when she was the one who had lost everything.
“Too-Ticky was with him. She assured us it was quick. He didn’t suffer.”
Snufkin swallowed what felt like a rock in his throat. “That doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No,” Moominmamma agreed quietly, “it doesn’t.”
“I don’t need to know what happened,” Snufkin said. He didn’t want to know. A traitorous tear spilt down his cheek, and before he realised what was happening, Moominmamma was pulling him against her, his hat floating away at the sudden movement, and he was unravelling at the seams, his heartbreak spilling from him in a torrent. His sobs wracked his body, and he clung to Mamma, the guilt suffocating him just as much as his despair—what right did he have to break apart in Moominmamma’s arms when her grief was so much worse than his own? She was his mother. She lost her son. Snufkin just lost—
His best friend.
His soulmate.
His heart.
His home.
The tears wouldn’t stop. He cried until it hurt, and Moominmamma never once complained, holding him just as tightly, her paw soothing through his hair, not once shushing him but allowing him to experience all his feelings for as long as he needed.
Eventually, Snufkin cried himself out. He felt hollow, which he supposed made sense—his heart had been torn away from him, and he would never recover it. The gaping hole would remain. He would learn to live on, but things would never be the same. The world would never be as bright. Moomintroll had been the sun, and a world without him was bound to eternal darkness.
Spring may have arrived, but winter would live on in Snufkin’s chest. Perhaps he had been touched by the Groke.
“Where will you all go?” Snufkin asked after what felt like an age. His voice was raw, and his words cracked, but Mamma understood.
“We’re not sure yet,” she said. “We just know we can’t stay here.” That was understandable. Snufkin couldn’t stand to stay in the valley either. It had been home, but only because of Moomintroll. Without him, it already felt like a cage. “We hope you’ll visit us. We’ll try and send word when we’re settled,” Mamma said, though they both knew the chances were slim. They had no way to reach Snufkin, and Snufkin had no way to find them other than to stumble across them on his travels. Besides, as much as he loved the Moomins, Snufkin didn’t think he’d be able to look at them again without thinking of Moomintroll. He wasn’t sure his heart would be able to handle that for a long time.
“Will you be leaving soon?”
Moominmamma nodded. “I was just waiting for you.”
“Would you like me to accompany you?”
“I think we both need some time alone, don’t you? Don’t worry, dear, this won’t be my first solo trip. I’ll be fine.”
Moomintroll wasn’t fine. He’d gone out thinking he’d be back in bed in just a few hours and never made it home again. Snufkin opened his mouth to argue but closed it again. She was right that he needed time alone, and Moominmamma was the most capable creature he knew. Snufkin couldn’t cling to her. They both needed to grieve in their own ways—alone.
“You will always be family, Snufkin,” Mamma said, giving him one last hug that Snufkin melted into. It would likely be the last one he’d ever receive. Only the Moomins ever hugged him, and Snufkin, who was not a hugger, liked it that way. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that loss now. He wasn’t sure how to feel about anything; his body still too numb to process much of anything.
Snufkin barely noticed as Mamma crossed the room, reaching the front door. He only registered her leaving as the door opened, filling the room with light.
“I didn’t get to tell him,” Snufkin said quietly before Moominmamma could vanish out of the door for the final time. She paused, turning to look at him with gentle eyes. She knew what Snufkin meant. Of course, she did—she was Moominmamma; she always knew.
“He knew,” she said softly. “I hope it doesn’t hurt to hear this, but he felt the same. He loved you so very, very much, Snufkin.”
Snufkin didn’t know what to say to that. It was true, he knew Mamma wouldn’t lie to him. Without the right words, he just nodded.
“Please take care of yourself,” Mamma said.
“You too, Mamma. Give my love to everyone.” He didn’t add his sympathy; that wasn’t what any of them needed. It wouldn’t help to know he was sorry, especially as he wasn’t—he was angry and numb and lost.
“Of course,” she said, offering a small smile. “Goodbye, Snufkin.” With that, Moominmamma left the house Moominpappa had built—a home no longer. She didn’t shut the door, leaving light pooling in so that Snufkin couldn’t be consumed by the gloom, becoming one with the darkness. It would certainly match his mood, but he knew Moomintroll wouldn’t want that of him. Instead, Snufkin found his hat, dusting it off and replacing it on his head. His face felt puffy, his eyes sore, but he simply wiped a sleeve across them and headed to his pack.
On the porch, Snufkin blinked up at the sky. It wasn’t as bright as it had once been. Moominvalley sky had always been the most beautiful of blues. Now, it looked like the sky above any other part of the world—still beautiful, but less, somehow. Snufkin suspected the world would always be that way now.
Less.
How could it be anything but without Moomintroll in it?
Snufkin didn’t spare his spot by the bridge a second glance. He would never pitch his tent there again. He would never fish on the bridge, never play his harmonica for his best friend, never collect flowers to be woven into crowns.
Burying his emotions as deep as he could manage into the icy cavity that was his chest, Snufkin ducked his head and headed back to the path that left the valley. He couldn’t bring himself to take in the sights one final time—they would remind him of Moomintoll, which would hurt too much right now. Maybe he would never be ready to return. What was the point of Moominvalley without a moomin in it?
On his way from the valley, a figure in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he stopped in his tracks, half tempted to keep walking but unable to bring himself to. Instead, his feet moved without permission until he was standing above her.
“Snorkmaiden.”
“Oh, hello, Snufkin.”
Snufkin didn’t know what to say. He just stood beside her, feeling obliged not to run away now that he’d acknowledged her. He should have just kept walking. He’d never really had much to say to Snorkmaiden, and now it was even harder. What was one meant to say to the girlfriend of the boy they loved after his death?
“I’m leaving the valley,” Snorkmaiden said, not looking at him. She was weaving a flower crown. Watching her do it sent a new pang of hurt through his chest.
“Oh? I suppose that makes sense,” Snufkin said, trying to sound normal and failing.
“I suppose you’re heading out, too?” Snufkin appreciated that she didn’t ask if he knew. He was sure his puffy face was answer enough.
“Yes,” he said stiffly, hoping this wasn’t going where he thought it was.
Snorkmaiden laughed, reading him well. “Don’t worry. I also want to be alone.”
“Of course.”
“I hope one day we come across one another, at least just for a few minutes,” she said. “I think he would have liked that. To know that we’re not all strangers.”
Snufkin swallowed thickly and nodded. “I suppose he would.”
Snorkmaiden held her finished crown in front of her, examining it. When she stood up, she did so gracefully, turning to hold the flower crown out to Snufkin. He blinked in surprise. “For me?” he asked.
“It’s on behalf of our Moomintroll,” she said gently. “He did love you wearing them. So wear it for him, yeah?”
Snufkin felt his eyes well with tears again, but he didn’t want to cry. Not in front of Snorkmaiden. Trembling slightly, he leaned forward so she could slip the flower crown onto his hat. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“He’ll never be gone,” Snormaiden said. “Not if you remember him.”
“It’s not the same,” Snufkin said thickly, barely holding it together. He needed to run. He needed to get away.
“No,” Snorkmaiden agreed. “Nothing will ever be the same again. But you’re still alive, Snufkin. So live your best life for him, okay? That’s what I’m gonna do.”
“He really loved you,” Snufkin found himself compelled to say.
Snorkmaiden smiled. “I know,” she said. “He really loved you, too. He would have chosen you, eventually. If you’d let him.” There was no bitterness in her tone. If Snorkmaiden had ever resented Snufkin for this knowledge, she’d let it go.
Snufkin didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know if he’d have ever allowed himself to belong completely to Moomintroll. It was a scary thought, loving someone, especially for someone like Snufkin, who had never expected to fall in love in the first place.
“Have safe travels, Snorkmaiden,” Snufkin said eventually, unable to continue their conversation. Snorkmaiden didn’t seem to mind.
“You too, Snufkin. Be well, okay?”
“And you,” he said, and then, before he broke down completely, Snufkin turned and strode away. He felt her eyes watching him go, never leaving his profile until he vanished from view. He genuinely wished her the best, but he hoped he never saw her again. Seeing Snorkmaiden had been a different kind of painful to Moominmamma.
Snufkin walked for hours, not stopping until Moominvalley was far behind him. He was barely aware of the world around him as he moved, hardly feeling any of the steps he took. His body moved on autopilot; his mind too numb to be anything but silent. By the time he stopped, it was dark. He pitched his tent and built a fire without much thought, unbothered by his lack of dinner. He wasn’t hungry, anyway.
Instead of eating, he stared into the fire, trying not to think. At some point, he removed his hat, balancing it on his knees and focusing on the flower crown adorning it. He wanted to rip it free and toss it on the fire—it reminded him too much of Moomintroll. Moomintroll, who no longer existed in the world. Moomintroll, who’d left him behind. Moomintroll—
Anger flaring, it took everything for Snufkin not to throw his entire hat in the fire. He cradled it to his chest instead, crushing the petals of the flowers that decorated it.
“Why did you leave me?” he asked the fire, tears streaming down his face. The fire popped and crackled in response. The wind howled around him.
Moomintroll remained silent.
“How am I meant to do this?” he asked. He didn’t get an answer; there was nobody around to answer him. Snufkin would have to figure that out himself. He wasn’t sure how he’d ever manage.
All he could do was try. One day at a time. For the rest of his life.
Not knowing what else to do, Snufkin thumbed his harmonica, hesitating briefly before raising it to his lips.
He played that year’s spring tune.