“I am the only being whose doom No tongue would ask, no eye would mourn.”- Emily Brontë

The Morning’s Veil

I woke to a world swallowed by fog. The forest was a ghost of itself- trees reduced to silhouettes, the path ahead dissolved into a haze of silver and grey. Even the birds were silent, their songs muffled by the weight of the mist. I followed the stream, its voice the only guide, a murmur beneath the stillness.

The water was black as ink, reflecting nothing but the void above. I knelt to drink, and for a moment, my own face stared back- pale, fractured, a stranger’s visage rippling in the current. The forest does this: mirrors your doubts, your fears, the parts of yourself you’ve buried like bones.

The Language of Loss

I found something today. Half-buried in the mud, corroded by time, was a locket. Its chain was broken, its clasp rusted shut. When I pried it open, the inside was empty- no portrait, no lock of hair, just a hollow where memory once lived.

Who wore this? A lover? A lost soul? Or someone like me, who wandered too deep and forgot the way back? The locket hummed in my palm, cold and insistent. I slipped it into my pocket. Some questions aren’t meant to be answered yet.

With the fog this thick, the way was unclear. I gathered a cup of stream water, a feather and a candle. I held the feather above the water and asked for guidance through this unseen place. I dipped the feather into the water and traced a path over my skin, anointing myself. I lit the candle and allowed flame to burn the tip of the feather. The smoke curled upwards in the mist, its shape revealing a map.

Reflections

The fog has lifted now, but the locket stays with me- a reminder that loss is not an end, but a thread. Every empty space holds the echo of what once was, and every echo is a call to keep walking.

The forest is patient. It knows I will return, lantern in hand, to ask the questions I am not ready to voice yet.