You found her in the attic, barefoot, surrounded by boxes filled with postcards and vinyls, candlelight flickering over dust-danced air.

Folklore looked up from an old typewriter, her braid loose, eyes thoughtful.

—“I wasn’t hiding,” she said, voice soft, smile even softer. “I was just… in a story I hadn’t finished telling.”

She gestured for you to come sit on the floor beside her. Old polaroids, dried flowers, half-written lyrics lay scattered like stars.

—“This one,” she said, holding up a photo of two people dancing under string lights, “never happened. But I liked pretending it did.”

You laughed gently.

—“You write about people who don’t exist?”

She shrugged.

—“They exist somewhere. In the almosts and what ifs. That’s enough.”

She lit another candle, its scent something earthy—like cedar and distant rain. The room hummed with memory, like the walls themselves were listening.

—“Do you want to know a secret?” she asked, leaning in slightly. “I think some of the truest things I’ve ever felt came from stories I made up.”

Outside, the forest swayed. Midsummer air slipped through the open window, carrying the smell of moss and maybe—just maybe—something magic.

Folklore picked up a strand of ribbon from the floor, ran it between her fingers.

—“Not everything has to be real to be true,” she whispered.