When the fog comes walking out of the woods, and the candles lean in to listen — the witch counts one more day. One hundred and twenty-something. She always knows.

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The rain came at night and swallowed the lane,

a traveler, half-frozen, fell down in the black.

And the forest gave warning — a haunting's refrain:

"witch... something living is fading out there alone, and won't come back."

The witch went into the rain, no cloak and no fear,

carried the traveler in arms built to enfold,

brought him to the cabin — candle, tea, and a secret kept here,

and laid him down in the warm, so no cold could take hold.

Three nights of fever, a forehead checked and rechecked,

sweet herb tea, a vigil by candlelight kept.

The witch never slept — she stayed seated, connecting each breath,

counting his breathing to calm the rush in her chest.

And when the fever broke and he opened his eyes,

the witch's heart was no longer hers... it belonged to him there.

The forest returns what goes missing — old rule, true and tried —

but what the witch heals with devotion, the witch gives back to no one... not even if the forest would dare.

Look for the key, dear guest. Look slowly, look well.

The attic door is locked — the witch guards where you dwell.

If one night you run, the dead will bring you home again,

for the whole forest sides with the witch... and the witch never lets go of what she loves. Amen.

It's not a prison, it's care — for "goodbye" doesn't exist in this place.

The dead adore a guest, and nobody ever leaves... the place where the witch decided you'd sleep, forever, in her embrace.