The forest closed behind her like a secret.
Ana walked deeper, each step stealing the warmth from her skin. The moon was full, hanging low and heavy like an eye that watched but never blinked. Branches clawed at her sleeves. Roots reached for her ankles. And yet, she didn't turn back.
She followed the path she had seen in her dream: stones covered in moss, a tree with a crooked trunk, and finally, the faint orange glow of a fire, flickering beyond a hill.
When she reached the top, she saw it—the cottage. Just like the whispers had said: crooked walls, a sagging roof, and windows too small for light to escape. The smoke that rose from the chimney smelled not of wood, but of something older. Earthy. Metallic.
Ana hesitated. Then a voice called out:
"Come in, Ana. The door is open."
The girl froze. She hadn't knocked. She hadn't even stepped on the porch.
But she obeyed.
Inside, the warmth wrapped around her like a heavy cloak. The walls were lined with shelves, crowded with jars filled with floating herbs, animal bones, and strange things that pulsed faintly in the dark. Candles burned with blue flames. A black cat lay curled near the hearth, watching her with golden eyes.
And there, sitting at a wooden table, was Mara.
Her face was not as Ana imagined—no warts, no twisted nose. Her skin was weathered, like old bark, and her green eyes shimmered like still water.
"You've been dreaming," Mara said, not as a question, but as a fact.
Ana nodded.
"Good," the old woman continued. "The forest has chosen you. Now we must find out why."