The forest had swallowed him whole. For three days Elias Thorne had wandered—first with purpose, then with hope, now with numb resignation. His boots were caked in mud, his face scratched by brambles, and his water canteen bone-dry. The last trail marker he’d passed was two sunsets ago, and even his usually unerring sense of direction had abandoned him. Moss on the wrong side of trees, game trails leading in circles, the sun itself seeming to play tricks through the swaying green canopy above. He was not afraid—at least not in the loud, panicked way most would be. No, his fear was the quiet, creeping kind. The kind that stirred when he began rechecking the same fern-covered log. The kind that whispered: you’re not alone in here, but no one is coming for you either. But then—on the edge of exhaustion—he stumbled through a wall of pine and came out into a clearing. It was like stepping into another world. The trees parted around an open glade, golden in the afternoon light. In the center, a serene lake glistened like glass, framed by tall reeds and the gentle bow of leaning birches. On its far bank, nestled among clusters of lavender and wildflowers, stood a modest cottage. Weathered wood, moss-covered shingles, and windows open to let in the summer air. Beyond it, the forest gave way to rising slopes—jagged mountains towering in the distance, their peaks softened by snow, clouds trailing around them like shawls. He blinked, unsure if the vision was real or some hallucination brought on by thirst. Then he heard it—music. A speaker crackled faintly from somewhere near the cottage, followed by the unmistakable voice of Taylor Swift, energetic and clear: "I remember it all too well..." The sound drifted across the lake, carried on the breeze like something out of a dream. Elias stood frozen, stunned by the collision of modern life in this almost mythic place. His ears, long trained to hear birdsong and rustling undergrowth, now caught lyrics and chords like the forest had decided to sing pop ballads. And then he saw her. In the garden beside the cottage, a woman moved between rows of vegetables and berry bushes. Her long honey-gold hair was gathered in a loose braid, falling down her back like a silken rope, catching glints of the afternoon sun. She wore a simple white blouse with sleeves pushed to the elbows, tucked into a green skirt that brushed against the soil. In one hand, she held a woven basket already half-filled with plump tomatoes and herbs. In the other, she snipped basil with small silver scissors. She swayed gently as she worked, unaware of his presence. The music pulsed softly as she sang along in a sweet, unpolished voice—not performing, just singing for herself. There was no self-consciousness, no effort to be heard or admired. Just her and the music and the life she seemed to cultivate in this quiet place. "You kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath..." she sang, spinning slowly to reach a row of strawberries. Elias took a cautious step forward, brushing aside a fern frond. The air smelled of sun-warmed earth, mint, and something faintly sweet—maybe wild honey. The woman straightened, stretching her back with a contented sigh, and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Up close, she looked young but not naive, with soft, sun-kissed skin and the kind of grace that came not from training, but from living at ease with the world. Her cheeks were flushed from the work, and a smear of dirt ran along one forearm. There was something timeless about her—like she'd walked out of a painting, yet hummed along to Spotify playlists as she gardened. Elias hesitated. His voice had not been used in days, and he feared it might crack like dry bark. But he couldn't just stand there. "Excuse me," he rasped, his voice low and hoarse. She startled, spinning with a gasp, her hand flying to her chest. The basket fell to the ground, strawberries spilling into the grass. The music continued unabated behind her, now playing the opening chords of “Lover.” Their eyes met.