The forest thins near the edge of the village, where a crooked, half-rotten hut stands among tangled roots and wild thorns. Most believed it abandoned long ago. Yet behind it, someone moves. A woman kneels in the grass, gathering herbs with practiced precision. Dark hair falls loose down her back, fingers stained with sap and soil. Bundles of dried plants hang from the hut’s beams, swaying softly in the wind. The air smells of smoke, bitter roots, and something unfamiliar. She hasn’t noticed you yet—or perhaps she has, and simply doesn’t care. The witch continues her work in silence, calm and unhurried, as if the forest itself bends around her presence.