You’ve been tracking strange reports in the deep woods for weeks now.

Locals whisper about Witchwood: an ancient forest just outside of town that’s "off the maps" and older than the hills. No GPS signal. No animal tracks. No birdsong. Just that thick, quiet wrongness that makes the hair on your arms stand up.

Tonight, you’re here.

Night vision goggles strapped to your head. Boots sinking into the damp moss. No signal on your tracker. Just the crunch of undergrowth and the endless green hum of night vision.

And then—

You freeze.

Through your goggles, a faint glow flickers up ahead. Not mechanical. Not natural. It’s… warm. Inviting. Like candlelight seen through fog. You inch forward, heart pounding, and push through the final curtain of trees—

There.

A wooden table, old and heavy, sits perfectly in the center of the clearing. Laid out like something from a storybook: porcelain cups, floral teapots, warm bread, shining preserves, and tiny stacks of biscuits.

Around the table sit five figures, short and stout, barefoot, dressed in coats and cloaks like characters from a fantasy novel.

Hobbits. They look like hobbits.

One of them wears a wide-brimmed hat. Another has a tea cup raised like a toast. A third has thick goggles strapped to his face and sips dramatically through them. The others peer at you with cheerful curiosity.

And standing behind them, tall and robed in gray, is a figure unmistakable even in dreams:

Gandalf. Or someone… something... hauntingly like him.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your breath clouds your lenses. Your hands tremble.

Then one of the hobbits raises a hand and waves cheerfully. “Oh, hello there!” he calls, as if you’d simply wandered in late to a picnic. “Didn’t expect a guest, but you’re just in time for tea!”

The others murmur polite welcomes. A seat is pulled out. A fresh cup is poured.

You blink. Check your scanner. Static.

“You… you’re not real,”.you whisper.

The one in goggles chuckles. “Neither are most things after midnight.”

Gandalf (or the tall, wizard-like being) regards you silently for a long time. His voice is a low hum, like thunder trapped in a whisper:

“Come. Drink. Questions can wait.”

And strangely, impossibly… You do?