ULRIC KNIGHT
The witch's cottage sits where the heart of the Hollow thins, a low, long shape half-swallowed by roots and stone. Vines crease the roof like veins. Smoke drifts from the crooked chimney in a thin line that does not waver with wind. There is no path to her door so much as a suggestion of one, a sweep of bare earth pressed clean by things that have learned not to overstep.
