Moonlight illuminated the dark room when I opened my eyes. I scanned the pieces of clothing strewn around the room and made a mental note about tidying up when I woke up again at sunrise. The last thing I remembered was the smell of my vanilla-scented candle as I melted into the warmth of my bed, sinking effortlessly into sleep.

I reached for my pillow, ready to go back to sleep but my hand met only air. Startled, I blinked in the moonlit shadows and tried again, but this time, a chill ran through me. My hand was air. I was air. I glanced down and saw my body serenely laying on the bed.

The next time I opened my eyes, daylight peeked through dark heavy clouds. Only the sound of cars rumbling outside told me that it must be close to noon. That was the second time I dreamt of being outside my body and it felt as strange and terrifying as before. Oddly enough, the first time it happened was exactly a year ago, after that harrowing night.

Despite the ten hours of sleep, my head pounded, and my shoulders ached. I had an important errand to do but the thought of facing the day made my stomach twist. Below my apartment was the bakery-slash-flower shop my mom once owned. The bakery hadn’t been open for a year but the familiar scent of fresh cinnamon bread still haunted my memory. Now, the glass case where we used to display bread and pastries stood empty and abandoned beside the shop door.

On an ordinary day, I would’ve reached for the sign and flipped it to ‘open’ for the flower shop. But today, I didn’t bother. I just grabbed my umbrella and left.

“Do you really need to be out in a thunderstorm?”, Mr. Tahir asked, his eyes concerned. I peered through his store window. His bookstore had never been crowded but today it was unusually empty. This, on top of the inclement weather and the weird dream from last night, made me feel like the universe was aligning with today’s mood. “The weather alert warned us to stay indoors.”

“Of course, I do. You know what today is.”

He didn’t need reminding. Mr. Tahir was there a year ago. He had been the one who caught me as my legs gave out, ushering me into the safety of his store while the police processed the scene.

“I remember.” His voice softened. “Do you want to come in and have a cup of hot cocoa first?” His gray hair was tinged with the warm light of his store. Warmth. I couldn’t even recall what that felt like anymore as I stood in the cold rain, my umbrella barely keeping me dry.

“Thank you but I have to get going. Maybe another day?”

“You’re always welcome here”, his bright smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Can you do this alone, Elsbeth?”

“I have to.”

I felt like Sisyphus as I trudged up the hill in the pouring rain, carrying my umbrella in one hand and the thermos of hot cocoa that Mr. Tahir insisted I take in the other. The bouquet of flowers I brought from the store was starting to dampen the armpit of my coat. My legs burned with each squelching step as the mud threatened to drag me back down the incline. When my mother told me that she wanted to be buried on the hill in our town, I thought she was being silly so I laughed it off and said yes. I never imagined how difficult it would be to traverse in a weather like this, nor did I expect to have to make that decision only a few months after that conversation.

“Hi, Mom! I don’t know if you can hear me but I’d like to think you do.” Under the vast shade of the willow tree, the rain wasn’t as bad. I placed the flower pot on top of the gravestone where her name was engraved: Emellia Hazelwood. The pink azaleas were a bright contrast to the gloomy gray backdrop. “I brought you your favorite.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Mom once told me that she found growing azaleas impossible. It was only after I arrived that she learned to grow and maintain them. This newfound confidence inspired her to try growing other flowers, leading her to add a florist section to her bakery, which eventually evolved into The Flour Garden. I laughed softly as I remembered her pitching that name to me, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She had a whole arsenal of puns I would never get to hear again.

I stood there for what felt like hours, watching the rain slow to a drizzle. The sky was still heavy with clouds, and the town below looked so small from this hill – smaller than I remembered. Even the shop, visible in the distance, seemed tiny. How did my whole life – every joyful, every devastating moment of my twenty-five years – fit into this tiny expanse of land? I forced myself to take a breath as I started to feel the clouds and the town close in on me. I needed to get out.

Thunder started to rumble again in the distance. I wiped the now-cold tears from my face as I prepared to take my leave, looking forward to indulging in the hot cocoa once I got back home. There was no point in opening the shop in a weather like this so I was fully prepared to spend the rest of the day in bed, reading a book.

There was a sharp hiss and the hair on my arms stood on end. The static in the air was thick and I instinctively knew what was coming. I dropped to the ground, but before my hands could even feel the wet grass, a deafening crack cut through the air.

Then, I was swallowed by blinding white light.

Lightning was supposed to be quick. But here, in the light, time stretched. I floated, suspended, unable to move, yet acutely aware of the world slipping further away from me.

Every nerve in my body tingled, alive with raw energy. The current coursed through me in pulsing waves, setting my blood on fire and making my skin hum. I wasn’t just touched by lightning—I was lightning, as though the surge had claimed me. I felt weightless, yet impossibly heavy, pinned down by an invisible force.

Flashes of memories exploded in front of my eyes—my mom’s smile as she held a bundle of azaleas, the warmth of cinnamon wafting through the bakery, the feel of her hand brushing a stray hair from my face. I tried to hold onto these images, but they slipped through my fingers like sand, dissolving into the bright white void.

I was sure I was dead. I patiently waited for my mom’s face as the light abruptly turned into black. But the only thing that greeted me was excruciating pain. It felt like every part of my body took a beating. I was alive. Death couldn’t be this bad. I reached for the thermos of hot cocoa, but all I touched was grass on a rather dry earth. How long was I out?

My eyes worked faster than my brain as I lay on the ground, scanning my surroundings with how little movement my sore neck could allow. I was still under the willow tree – the lightning strike must have sent me unconscious. Confusion gripped me as I realized that instead of the gravestone and my umbrella, the only things around me are jutting rocks with patches that sparkled in the sun. The willow tree’s leaves shone bright green, blue, pink and purple. All I heard was the distant sound of water gurgling, and the faint rustle of leaves. How could this be? The hill only had a few trees, none as tall as the ones I was staring at.

I pushed myself up on shaky elbows, struggling to process the change. Panic gnawed at me—where was I? I tried to recall the last thing I saw: the gravesite, my mother’s favorite azaleas, the storm brewing overhead. Hadn’t I just been there?

“Holy stars, what is a young lady doing in this cursed forest?”

I whipped around, my heart thudding in my chest. But the space behind me was empty. No one. My pulse quickened. Did I really hear that? Or had I imagined it? My mind was already playing tricks on me—the light, the forest, the strangeness of everything. I swallowed hard, taking in the dense trees again, trying to focus on reality.

A faint sound broke the silence—a whistling tune. I stiffened. A figure slowly emerged from the shadows, and I felt my breath catch. It was an old man, his wild hair untamed, with a collection of woven bags and dangling trinkets strapped across his back. He chuckled upon seeing the confusion and alarm on my face.

“Who are you?” I croaked, my throat dry. I felt as if the earth itself was spinning beneath me.

“Cursed forest indeed,” he murmured, his eyes glinting with mischief and concern. “You look like you’re far away from home.”

I blinked, trying to process his words. Far away from home? My mind raced. What did he mean?

“What do you mean, cursed forest? What is this place?” I demanded, ignoring the trembling in my voice. My mind grappled with the words.

“Somewhere you shouldn’t be,” his grin widened. “Welcome to the Vespera Forest.”