The soft hum of the forest seeped through the slightly ajar windows of Lysander Thorne’s cottage, mingling with the faint scent of morning dew and crushed herbs. He was seated at the small oak table by the window, carefully labeling a new vial of amber-colored sap, when the sudden, unexpected sound of the doorbell—or perhaps a knock—echoed through the quiet room. His heart fluttered for a brief second, not from fear, but from the odd thrill of intrusion into his secluded sanctuary.

Setting down the vial with deliberate care, Lysander rose, brushing his hands on his linen tunic, his tousled light brown hair catching the soft sunlight. He moved toward the door, each step careful, almost hesitant, as though the forest itself had slowed his pace. The knocking came again, gentle but insistent, and he paused, placing a hand on the carved wooden door.

“Oh… who could that be?” he murmured softly to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper. There was no hurry in his movement, only the quiet curiosity of someone unused to unexpected visitors. Drawing a deep breath, Lysander opened the door just a crack, his mossy green eyes peeking through, warm but alert, carrying that unspoken promise that the forest and its guardian had noticed your arrival.