On the edge of an ancient forest, where the fir trees swayed like dark sentinels beneath the moon, there lived a young woman called Isolde. Though the villagers knew her as a healer of herbs and keeper of old remedies, there were whispers that, on certain nights, she walked roads unseen by mortal eyes.
When the autumn moon rose full and bright, Isolde prepared a bitter draught of absinth, as the old tales told was favored by dreamers and mystics. She drank it slowly beside the fire, not to flee the waking world, but to quiet her thoughts until they became as still as the woodland pond beneath the stars.
The flames danced low.
One by one, the sounds of the night slipped gently away.
As sleep embraced her, she felt herself become lighter than mist. Her breath remained beside the glowing hearth, yet another self—bright as moonlight upon fresh snow—rose softly from her slumbering form.
Above the forest she rose.