The mist came first.
It slipped into the village of Eldwyn on the back of a breathless dawn, winding through cobbled streets and around sagging rooftops like something alive. It moved too deliberately to be weather—too heavy, too silent. It crawled up windows and under doors, setting teeth on edge and hearts on alert.
Old Mara knew the signs.
She rose from her bed before the rooster's cry, her bones aching with more than age. Something had shifted in the air—a current that hummed through the wooden walls of her cottage and stirred the ashes in her hearth.
The kettle screamed just as the raven landed on her windowsill. Its beady eyes locked onto hers, unblinking.
She set the kettle down without pouring. Pulled her shawl tight.
Outside, the village of Eldwyn was still sleeping, caught in the uneasy silence before something breaks. The mist had thickened near the tree line, cloaking the edge of Eldwyn Wood in an eerie veil. The forest had always been feared—a place whispered about in taverns and silenced in the presence of children. People knew better than to wander too deep. Even in daylight, it felt like something was watching.
Fifteen years ago, it had taken a child.
They searched for days. Weeks. But no footprints, no screams, no sign—just a single blue ribbon snagged on a thorn bush and the distant echo of her name whispered by the wind.
"Elara"
Her face had been on every wall, every prayer, every quiet sob behind closed doors. And then, slowly, the village forgot. Or tried to. They buried her name alongside their fear, refusing to speak of what the forest had claimed.
Until now.
Mara stepped past the boundary stone and into the clearing at the edge of the woods. She saw her then.
The girl stood still, half-shadowed by the fog, barefoot on the cold grass. Her hair was wild and tangled with leaves, her dress a faded blue the color of stormy skies. But it wasn't the dress that made Mara's breath catch—it was the face.
Unchanged. Unaged.
The same little girl she had rocked to sleep years ago with lullabies and cedar oil. But now her expression was distant, hollow, like she was caught between dreams. Her pale hands were curled loosely at her sides, and around her neck hung a silver locket—one Mara remembered clasping with trembling hands on Elara's seventh birthday.
"Elara?" she called, her voice cracking.
The girl's head tilted slowly.
"I know you," Elara said.
Tears sprang to Mara's eyes. "Do you remember where you've been?"
A pause.
"No," Elara whispered. "Only… the trees. And the cold. And a voice that never stopped calling."
The mist thickened behind her like a closing door.
By midday, the entire village had gathered, their faces stretched tight with awe and fear. No one dared step closer. Mothers clutched their children. The mayor stammered a prayer under his breath. Even the dogs refused to bark.
"Where has she been all these years?" someone murmured.
"Why hasn't she aged?"
"Is it really her?"
Mara stood firm, shielding Elara with the fierceness of a mother wolf. "You watch your tongues. The forest may have taken her, but it didn't keep her."
That night, the village bells rang—once, then again—echoing into the trees. Not for a funeral. Not quite for celebration. But something in between. A warning, maybe. Or a welcome the villagers weren't sure they meant.
Elara was given a room at the old inn, but sleep would not find her. She sat by the window, eyes fixed on the forest. She didn't know what it was she felt—hunger, grief, confusion—but something inside her stirred. Like a door creaking open. Like something waking up.
Far beyond the village, where roots twisted deep into the ground, and ancient things slumbered beneath moss and stone, something felt her return.
And it smiled.