The light is already fading when you arrive, though it is only late afternoon. This is the way of winter here, this far north, where the sun makes only a brief appearance above the horizon, painting the world in shades of blue and silver before retreating again, leaving behind a twilight that lasts for hours.

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The path appears before you just as the sun begins its slow descent toward the horizon. You find yourself standing at the edge of a garden you don't quite remember finding, though it feels as if it has been waiting for you, patient and still, measuring time in the opening of petals and the unfurling of leaves.

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The path begins where the city ends, at the edge of afternoon, where the last wooden houses lean against the mountain's base as if seeking permission to go no further. You stand at the first stone step, one of thousands that lead upward into the forest, and the air already feels different here—cooler, cleaner, carrying the scent of cedar and something else, something older than words.

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