We All Have Our Stories

forest mist

Between the trees there creeps a rain-slicked path, mossy and tarred with the mulch of leaves that have fallen and been trodden underfoot, not by men but by whatever else may pass this way. The tang of decay rises with each step, vibrant and coarse in the frigid air.

To the east, a small stone cottage hunkers low beyond the roll and dip of the forest floor. Almost hidden by the misting rain, its dark windows stare blindly out, while what sits behind them is not blind at all. A breath of smoke rises silently from the chimney, hanging in the still air.  Stiff-jawed and cold-eyed, you take care to not to turn your face toward the trees, the space between their dark, traitorous columns singing out your presence.

The lonely whistle of a pigeon’s wings echoes in the canopy, and you flick your eyes back to the path ahead, praying that you will soon be out of sight. When your fingers unfreeze and the mud and dead leaves are gone from your boots, all this will just be a story to tell.

 

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