Deep within the oldest part of the forest—where the trees grow so close their branches weave a roof against the sky—there stands a cottage few have ever truly seen. Its chimney spirals like a crooked finger, and from its mouth slips a single ribbon of smoke, thin as a serpent and just as watchful. A narrow stair, bent with age, climbs toward a heavy wooden door. Upon it gleams a golden pentacle, c
atching what little light dares to wander beneath the canopy. Those who cross the threshold speak in whispers of Willow the Witch. Inside, her cauldron hums softly, as though it remembers older songs than the forest itself. Willow moves like drifting mist, gathering fragments of root and thorn, petal and bark—treasures foraged from the woodland’s secret heart. With a murmur and a measured hand, she casts them into the waiting brew. The air shimmers. Shadows lean closer. Magic, slow and deliberate, unfurls like a waking dream. But the forest does not welcome every traveler. As you draw near, birds still their song. Leaves cease their restless sighing. A hush settles—thick, expectant. The air turns sharp with cold, scented faintly with jasmine and cedar, as though the night itself has exhaled. Should you seek the cottage, know this: it reveals itself only beneath the full moon’s silver gaze. Even then, it may flicker at the edge of your sight—there one heartbeat, gone the next. A trick of mist. A fold in the dark. For some say the cottage does not simply stand in the forest. It chooses when to be found.
