Inside the forest, there was hardly any sunlight. Only a few slivers managed to penetrate through the dense foliage above. In due time, they too would extinguish, leaving the forest in the cold blue darkness of the night.
But it never did descend into total darkness. As the sunlight faded, orbs of light began to softly illuminate the century-old trees with their serene glimmer. They meandered carelessly above the branches and along the forest floor, sometimes bumping into unsuspecting travelers that passed through these woodlands. The orbs never cared, and simply continued their waltz through the night.
I never learnt what they were. Father never understood them either. Yet, never did I regard them with fear. Instead, I smiled as I always did, and spoke to them. “I have returned.” They were, after all, the only ones I could say that to. I fantasized they responded in kind, asking if I was well and clamouring to hear the details of my day.
Then, their voices disappeared. Only their eerie white glow remained. The man’s words began to echo through my head, over and over, in that same hiss. The spirits, it kept saying. The… spirits… A word that held a natural place within me, but, for whatever reason, was unfamiliar once more. With just the wave of a wand. I tried to shake off the feeling, eventually distracting myself with supper.
The trail eventually broke into a large glade. It was an artificial one. Many of the trees that once stood here were cut down to afford the clearing with the sun’s radiance. The few that remained provided at least some sort of shelter from the elements with their outstretched arms. Gardens of flowers and other ferns blanketed the space, their prolific growth enabled by the thinner foliage. The trail was smothered by these flowers from both sides as it meandered up to the middle of the clearing, where the stone cottage stood. It was a leftover from my father; cozy, old fashioned, well built, despite its looks. A mixture of moss and vines had overstepped their franchise and taken over the stone walls. Sometimes, they entangled the windows and kept them from opening properly without a trim. I never minded their contribution, however. They symphonized the cottage with the forest, making it feel more like it belonged.
The vines intertwined with a thick, black cable that extended from the cottage to a watermill just down the slope. The mill was the enclave’s lifeline; old, rustic, yet resilient and reliable. Situated next to a narrow yet knee-deep stream that snaked around the glade, it was adorned with its own oakwood deck and a bridge that connected to the trail across the stream. It too was surrounded by ferns and flowers. The sound of its steady, perpetual churning filled the glade through the days and nights. Many years ago, the sun and the flowers came together to make the space glow with colour. Now, their colours were muted, seemingly inhibited by an invisible force.