I'm dedicating this chapter to Fiondil. The last communication I had from him was a very kind and lovely review of this story.    

Frodo remained with Gandalf and Adamanta throughout the summer and beyond. He helped harvest the bounty of her garden, and visited the river below to fish. He listened to Adamanta's tales of Tuk and of her family as he worked by her side in the kitchen or the garden; he would sit by Gandalf as his old friend spun tales of days gone by. He spoke only to encourage the others to continue talking. The sounds of their voices were soothing, keeping his mind from straying to his loss. Sometimes he would soothe himself with his sketchbook, spending hours making meaningless, yet beautiful, patterns.

But at night in bed, as he stared at the stars through the skylight, he saw years of loneliness stretching ahead of him. Loneliness had been an old acquaintance since he lost his parents long ago.

One morning, he and Gandalf went to the Water, fishing poles in hand. Casting his line, Gandalf said, "Did you know that your birthday is next week?"

Frodo felt a sharp pang of grief. There had never been a birthday without Bilbo. "I can't," he said, the lump in his throat silencing him abruptly.

"It will happen, nonetheless. You will be seventy-three." He drew the lure through the water, eyeing the fly and noting the shadowy shapes of the trout moving below the surface. He said nothing more, but waited.

Frodo silently tried to think. Finally he said, "So, it's 1441 now?"

"It is. You have been gone for twenty years." There was a pull on his line. He pulled in a shiny brown trout, and held it up. "A bit young. Back you go!" He slipped the fish back into the water.

Frodo drew in a deep breath. "I think it's time for another glimpse of the Shire."