There once was a gnome—
not young,
but with knees that still bent
and fingers that still curled around tools
like old secrets.

He wasn’t one for grandeur,
but he had an idea:
a place where words could stretch their limbs,
where stories could settle
like moss on the stone of quiet minds.

It started with a single post,
bare as bark,
and then another,
lashed together with stubborn hope
and just enough knowledge to make a mess.

He tried and failed.
Then tried again.
He tore down what didn’t feel right,
spat out the splinters of broken builds,
and whispered to the Hollow:
“Not yet. But soon.”

And the Hollow listened.
Branches offered shade.
Owls hooted encouragement.
Even the winds nudged loose ideas into place.

Still, it was the gnome who stayed up late,
testing buttons,
arguing with menus,
giving shapes to thought
and scrollbars to dreams.

Now the world stands —
quiet, curious,
with just enough magic in its margins
to catch you when you wander in.

It is not perfect.
It never was meant to be.
But it is real.
And it is his.

A world for words,
built by one who still believes
they matter.