The next morning, a thick blanket of mist draped over Elderfern, softening the edges of the world. Joy stood at her window, a warm cup of tea in her hands, watching the fog curl through the trees. Her dream lingered—fleeting images of tall, listening trees, silver light flickering through shadows, and her name whispered like a secret.
She brushed it off with a shaky breath. A dream was just a dream. Or so she told herself.
Boots laced and satchel packed, she stepped outside. The damp air smelled of moss and morning earth. Her path wound past the old stone mill again, its broken wheel hidden beneath ivy and years of silence. She might have passed it without notice, if not for the narrow trail just beyond it—one she hadn't seen before.
It was barely more than a deer track, framed by two hollow trees with trunks wide enough to walk through. It felt like an invitation. Or a test.
Joy hesitated, glancing back toward the main path. Then she stepped forward.
The Wildwood closed around her quickly. Trees arched overhead, their limbs knitted into a canopy that filtered the light into a green-gold haze. Ferns brushed against her legs, and clusters of tiny blue flowers bloomed in spirals beneath twisted roots.
She knelt to sketch one, already flipping through her mental index of plants. But something about them felt unfamiliar—too vibrant, too precise, like they belonged in a painting, not a field guide.
Then she heard it.
Her name.
Barely a whisper, soft and distant, like wind threading through leaves—but unmistakable.
Joy stood slowly, her heart thudding. "Hello?" she called.
Silence.
She turned around—and froze.
The path she'd come down was gone. In its place, the forest had shifted. Trees stood in perfect formation, forming a corridor that hadn't been there before. It felt unnatural. Intentional.
A shiver ran down her spine.
Just ahead, something caught her eye—a symbol carved into the bark of a tree. Not old and weathered, but fresh. Clean. And glowing faintly with a soft silver light.
She stepped closer, drawn in. Her fingers hovered just above it.
Then she touched it.
The air around her changed. A soft vibration thrummed beneath her feet, and warmth pulsed up through her hand. Images flooded her mind—paths winding deeper into the woods, moonlit pools, a cloaked figure watching from beneath a veil of ivy.
Then—nothing.
The symbol dimmed. The forest held still.
Joy stumbled back, heart racing. She stared at the tree, her breath catching in her throat.
This wasn't just folklore.
The Wildwood was alive.
And it had just spoken to her.