Day 5 – the forest sprite

There’s been a rustling in the leaves these last few nights – not the usual scurry of chipmunks or whisper of wind through the birch. Something else. A shape that doesn’t quite belong, but also doesn’t seem out of place in the way a dream isn’t out of place while you’re dreaming it.
Last night, under the round glow of a patient moon, I saw it: the forest sprite. All shag and shadow, glowing eyes like twin candle-flames tucked in a haystack. Standing among the trees as if it had been there longer than the forest itself, waiting for someone to notice. The kind of thing you glimpse just once before you start to question if you truly did.

It didn’t move toward me, didn’t need to. The air between us was enough – that hum of old stories and mossy secrets that live in the blue hours. A few leaves swirled at its feet, reds and golds catching moonlight like tiny lanterns, and then the woods settled again. Quiet. Watching.

If you ever find yourself walking alone beneath tall trunks and moonlight, and you hear a sound that feels more like a memory than a noise – pause. The forest sprite might be near, minding the forest, or maybe just curious about who still looks up to see.

(Autumn tip: bring an apple to leave by a stump. Old spirits appreciate the gesture.)

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