Sam took a key out of his pocket; he unlocked the door before him, then let it swing slowly inwards. All in the room was still. No one ever came into this room except for him. The door was kept locked to keep out the brood of Gamgee children, several of whom were curious enough to make a Took proud, in fact they did just that. Rosie never came into this room either. Not that Sam had forbidden her to come in, he hadn’t, Rosie just instinctively knew that this was her husband’s special place to remember his dearest friend and that somehow it was important that he be the only one who entered that place. Once a week Sam let himself into the room, dust cloth and broom in hand. He carefully dusted all of the surfaces. Taking care to leave things as they were when he came in, as they had been the last time Frodo had been in there. There were even a few things in the room that Frodo had been the last person to touch. It comforted Sam to know this; he looked at them and for a moment could believe that his dear Mr. Frodo wasn’t so far away after all.

It was now common knowledge around the community that Sam kept Frodo’s study as a sort of memorial to Frodo. Frodo’s bedroom had long ago been designated as a guest room, but nothing in that room had changed either and when the old Hobbit hole did happen to be full of guests somehow the room still managed to go unused. Hobbits often have all sorts of opinions to give on any matter, all you have to do is ask and most of the time you don’t even have to do that. The general opinion of the folks around Hobbiton was that with the Gamgee family being as large as it was that the room should have long since been given over to one of the children. But Sam and Rosie had never considered it. Instead the money had been spent to add on additional rooms.

Sam stepped into the room and looked all around him. Inhaling deeply of the air. Yes, he could still catch a whiff of Frodo’s pipeweed. Frodo had left his pipe sitting in the bowl where he had always emptied his ashes when he smoked while he wrote. Bowl and Pipe were sitting on the desk, as though waiting for their master to return to use them once more.

The room itself was rather small. Most of the space was taken up with the writing desk, and two comfortable old armchairs. The walls were covered with bookcases. The sort that had a glass paneled door for each shelf. The doors opened upwards, then slid into the top of the opening. Sam had always thought this ingenious. Bilbo had said that a dwarf had come up with the idea after Bilbo had complained of the continual chore of trying to keep his books and things dusted. Sam had to admit that the idea worked, once a year Sam came in and give the books a quick swipe with an oilcloth to keep the leather covers in good condition. On such occasions Sam never failed to notice that very little dust had made it past the protective glass doors.

The books themselves were among the few things in the room that were ever used. Sam felt that Mr. Bilbo and Frodo would likely have been disappointed if the books went unread. Sam had taken it upon himself to read them, every last one of them. Merry and Pippin were allowed to read them as well, but they had to come to Bag End to do it. Sam would never have let Merry and Pippin take any of the books out of Bag End, but they did not mind, they felt the same.

Sam sat down in one of the armchairs and just looked at the writing desk with its sloped top and the empty chair before it. The chair had not been sat in since Frodo last sat in it. Nor had it been moved the barest fraction of an inch. The way it sat, pulled out and slightly to one side, made it look that its owner had only got up a moment ago to fetch a cup of tea and would be back at any moment. There was even paper and quill at the ready on the desktop. For a moment Sam could almost convince himself that Frodo had not left at all. But then the moment would be over, the truth would settle back into place, making Sam’s heart ache.

Tossed casually over the arm of the chair where Sam sat was a blanket. Made of the softest wool. The color was a soft grey. Frodo had draped the blanket around himself when ever he was feeling chill. Sam picked the blanket up now, as he always did when coming in to visit Frodo’s study. Bundling the blanket into his arms he held it tightly, inhaled deeply of the scents that were trapped within its fibers, and cried.