The morning fog rolled in like a soft curtain, clinging to the thatched rooftops of the village and smothering the sky in pale gray. Ivy stirred from her slumber, the cold of the stone floor beneath her feet waking her faster than any sunbeam. Her cottage, tucked near the edge of the forest, was always colder than the others. The villagers said it was because she lived too close to the trees. Ivy never argued. Let them believe what they would.
She wrapped herself in her shawl, stepping outside. The air smelled of damp moss and woodsmoke. Her woven basket hung from her elbow, filled with glass jars, tiny scissors, and folded scraps of parchment. It was time to gather again.
The villagers watched her. They always did. Whispers trailed behind her like shadows.
"There she goes again."
"She won't be happy until she disappears like the rest."
"Witch."
She ignored them. Her steps were measured and calm as she passed by the blacksmith's forge and the baker's stall and finally reached the path leading to the forest. The trees stood like sentinels, unmoving, yet deeply aware.
The deeper she walked, the quieter the world became.
It was in a clearing of ferns and twisted roots that she first noticed something new. Nestled between two stones was a cluster of silverleaf—a rare herb known for its healing properties. Not unheard of in this forest, but odd to find it so conveniently arranged… as if placed.
Beside the herb sat a small stone, polished to a shine and wrapped in a spiral of braided grass. Ivy crouched and picked it up gently, her brows furrowing. It was beautiful.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she placed it in her basket. She didn't speak aloud, though a single thought echoed through her mind:
Someone left this for me.
The days bled together in a gentle rhythm. Ivy returned to the forest, and each time, she found more. A smooth shell with impossible patterns carved into it. A sprig of moonroot tied with crimson thread. A glass bead that shimmered like a drop of blood under sunlight.
The gifts grew more personal. Her favorite flower—ghost orchids—appeared bound in satin ribbon. A pair of hand-stitched gloves, sized perfectly for her hands. A book—old and brittle—but written in the very script her mother used in her journals.
She hadn't told anyone about that script. Not even once.
Each time she ventured deeper, she felt the presence. It lingered in the air like static, humming beneath her skin. The forest watched. Not in malice, but… longing.
One evening, Ivy returned home to find something she couldn't explain.
Her door had been shut. She always checked twice. But now, it hung slightly ajar. A candle still burned on the table, wax melted down to a jagged base. And on her bed—laid carefully, reverently—was a shawl.
Not just any shawl. Her mother's shawl.
Lost years ago when her mother vanished into the forest.
Ivy gasped and stumbled back. Her heart pounded in her chest like a drum.
"Who are you?" she whispered into the empty room. "Why do you know me?"
No reply came. Only the distant rustle of branches outside. Like laughter.
But even in her fear, her hands reached for the shawl. It was soft. Warm. And it smelled of lavender and pine.
The next morning, Ivy didn't wait for the whispers. She marched into the forest with purpose, deeper than ever before.
She walked past groves of thick-barked trees, under hanging moss that tickled her cheeks, and stepped into silence so complete she could hear the beat of her own heart.
A clearing opened up before her.
There, standing at the edge of the trees, was a figure.
Tall. Cloaked in shadows. Antlers curled from his head like twisted branches. His skin shimmered dark like bark, with veins of glowing green running through him like sap.
He didn't move.
Neither did she.
For what felt like hours, they stood—two beings from separate worlds, bound by something neither fully understood. Ivy's throat was dry. Her basket slipped from her fingers and landed softly in the moss.
The figure tilted his head.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
And then, he vanished.
Not into the forest. Not into mist.
He was simply… gone.
Ivy sank to her knees.
The gifts. The shawl. The polished stones. Her mother's memory. All of it.
He was real.
And he was watching.