Tucked somewhere between memory and a dream, where time never quite settles and the air hums like it’s holding a secret. The sky always glows a soft, forgiving shade, neither morning nor night, and the breeze carries the scent of something old and kind.
It never rains here. Yet the ground stays soft beneath bare feet, and the flowers are always in bloom. Vines curl like ribbon around branches that stretch toward the sky, and the trees whisper things only they understand.
The animals move gently through it all, part of the stillness, part of the magic. Birds share secrets through song. Foxes rest beneath ivy-covered roots. Butterflies hover as if suspended by a thought. It’s a land of quiet, of gentle knowing.
At the edge of the clearing stands a small cottage, weathered and strange, as if it’s always been there and always will be. It’s windows flicker with amber light, and it’s porch creaks beneath the slow sway of an old rocking chair.
If you look closely, you might see her. A hooded figure moving through the trees, always at the edge where shadow meets light.
She never speaks. Never reveals her face. But the branches lean in as she passes, and the wind stills, as if it knows to listen.
Some say she came before the forest. Others believe the trees grew around her, like children circling their mother’s skirt.
No one needs to question it. Here, mystery is not a riddle, it’s a comfort.
There are no rules here, only the quiet promise that whatever you leave behind at the threshold will still be waiting when you return.
Thirty Something Plus VAT 