The silence inside the forest is absolute. It's not a natural silence. It's a heavy, oppressive thing, a tangible presence that seems to press in on us from all sides. The sounds of the outside world—the birds, the insects, the rustle of the wind in the grass—are gone, replaced by a profound, unnerving stillness.
Even the sounds of our own passage seem muted, swallowed by the deep shadows and the dense canopy of leaves overhead. The wagon wheels, which usually rumble and creak on a dirt road, make a soft, muffled sound, like they're rolling on thick carpet instead of earth.
May is pressed against my side, her small body tense with a mixture of fear and fascination. She's not asking any questions. She's not chattering about princesses or magical lights. She's just watching, her wide eyes taking in every detail of this strange, new world.
