There is a particular kind of quiet you can only find when no one is watching you.

Not the kind that falls in an empty room, but the soft, living quiet of a place that doesn’t expect anything from you. A path lined with wildflowers. A garden just after rain. A forest clearing where the air feels like it’s been holding its breath for years.

That’s where the petals gather.

And, if you are paying attention, where the fae do too.

People like to say the fae are mischievous. Playful. Sweet in the way spring is sweet. But anyone who’s ever felt eyes on the back of their neck while standing alone among the flowers knows the truth: they’re nosy. Endlessly, unapologetically nosy.

They want to know where you’re going.
Why you’re sad.
What you’re hiding in your pockets.

And if they don’t ask, they’ll simply check.

It starts small. A missing hair tie. A button you were sure was there. The lip balm you swore you just set down. The fae don’t always take important things. Sometimes they just take what they can hold in their tiny hands, what they can tuck away into their little pockets lined with moss and petal dust.

Pocket magic, they call it.

But it’s not just the fae.

Some people have that same energy that gentle but persistent leaning in. Asking too many questions. Offering too many opinions. Straightening what doesn’t need to be straightened. Fixing what wasn’t broken.

Bossy in a way that pretends to be helpful.

Nosy in a way that calls itself caring.

And sometimes, it makes you want to step away from it all. To slip out of the noise and into a quieter place where no one is tugging at your sleeves or peering into your life like it’s something left unattended on a windowsill.

That’s when the petals help.

You notice them when you slow down. Little drifts of color at your feet. A soft trail leading you somewhere calmer. Somewhere untouched by questions and expectations and curious hands.

A place where even the fae keep their distance.

Because they know quiet is its own kind of magic.

In the hush, you can hear yourself think again. Your shoulders drop. Your breath evens out. Nothing is being taken from you, nothing is being rearranged. You’re allowed to exist without explanation.

It’s serene in a way that feels almost sacred.

And maybe the fae understand that better than anyone.

After all, even the nosiest among them know there are moments meant to be left alone. Moments too gentle to interrupt. Moments that don’t belong in pockets.

So they leave you your stillness.

They take a petal or two. A lost button. A glimmer of sunlight.

And in return, they let you keep the quiet.