When the box was opened, the world did not shatter all at once. It unraveled slowly, as silk pulled too quickly from a loom. First came the whispering things. Regret slipped out like pale smoke. Then Envy, sharp-eyed and green as wet leaves. Grief followed, heavy-footed, carrying storms in its cloak. They spilled from the box in colors both dark and dazzling - Fear with trembling hands, Deceit with a silver tongue, and War dressed in iron and fire. The air grew crowded wit

I had always believed the forest was enough. The roots knew my footsteps. The moss remembered my weight. Every tree had whispered my name at least once in the centuries I had walked beneath them. Why would I ever want anything else? Humans came and went like the weather. They were loud and brief creatures, bright sparks that burned and vanished before the leaves had time to fall twice. We watched them the way owls watch fireflies with curiosity and distance. That was how it

The field always felt different after midnight. During the day, it belonged to shepherds, wandering horses, and the slow music of wind through tall grass. But when the moon climbed high, and the earth turned silver, the land seemed to remember an older language. Sylvan had begun visiting the field without knowing why. Perhaps it was restlessness. Perhaps it was instinct. Or perhaps something in the night had begun calling his name. The young man arrived just as the moon reac