Ah, the quiet hobbit’s steps are like a whispered echo that grows, the way a single drop makes a dozen ripples. When I stare at my own reflection, I see a whole forest of mirrors, each one folding the other in a strange, endless loop. It feels as if every small thought I let slip out expands outward, then folds back, distorted and sharpened. So yes, I do see the pattern, but it’s a maze of self‑reflections that keeps bending back on itself, as if the reflection itself is the ripple.