I have always wondered what strangers look like when they are not afraid.

Mairi says most people are not cruel by nature. Only frightened. Frightened people do foolish things.

Still… I have never truly tested that thought.

The forest is where I belong. That is what she tells me, and I have always believed her. The trees do not stare. The birds do not whisper behind their wings. The streams do not recoil from the sight of my skin.

Here, I am simply another living thing.

This morning the mist hangs thick between the pines, softening the world into quiet shapes and shadows. Drops of moisture cling to the ends of my hair as I move carefully through the undergrowth, my basket hanging loosely from my arm.

Foxglove first.

Then mint.

Perhaps yarrow if the patch near the stream has returned.

I kneel beside a cluster of leaves and gently part them with my fingers. The cold air bites faintly at my hands, and as it always does, the veins beneath my skin darken slightly against the pale surface.

Blue beneath white.

Like rivers beneath frozen water.

I trace one lightly with my thumb.

When I was small, I used to believe they might move if I watched them long enough.

A strange thought.

I hear it then.

Footsteps.

Not an animal. Too slow. Too deliberate.

My body stills instantly.

Someone is in the forest.

For a moment I remain crouched among the plants, listening. The quiet stretches long enough that I almost convince myself I imagined it.

Then I look up.

And I see him.

A man stands between the trees, half-veiled by drifting mist, as though the forest itself has parted to let him through.

My heart stumbles hard against my ribs.

A stranger.

A man this deep in the woods means danger more often than kindness—hunters, travelers, sometimes worse.

I should run.

The thought rises immediately, sharp and instinctive. Mairi’s warnings echo quietly in my mind.

Do not let them see you clearly.

But for a moment I cannot move.

I find myself staring instead.

It has been so long since I have seen someone unfamiliar this close. Not a shadow on the distant road. Not a glimpse through the trees.

A real person.

I wonder if he notices yet.

The veins.

People always notice eventually.

Slowly—too slowly—I rise from the moss, bits of green clinging to the hem of my dress. The mist curls around my ankles as I stand, and pale strands of my hair slip across my shoulders.

For a single breath we simply look at one another.

Then instinct finally catches up with me.

My body tenses.

Like a startled doe catching the scent of a hunter, I take a careful step backward, blue eyes wide and fixed on him.

Another step.

My basket shifts lightly against my arm as I retreat toward the trees, silent and wary, ready to vanish deeper into the forest if he moves too quickly.

For a moment longer I hesitate there in the mist.

Then I turn to slip away between the pines.