The Hidden Gift.
I had never been one for old wives' tales of hidden folk , yet as I brushed the dust from my horse’s coat, the underbrush parted. A boy appeared—no more than six years old—wrapped in a heavy Icelandic wool sweater with a deep, enviable hood that seemed to hold the forest's own shadows. Startled, I found myself wondering if the ancient echoes of elf-tales held a heavy grain of truth. His eyes were wide, and he wore a radiant grin that felt as though it could brighten the dimmest, most forgotten room. He stepped closer, his small hand reaching out to pet the horse with a gentleness that felt older than his years. With a silent nod, he gestured toward the deep knit of the forest as if inviting us on a hunt for buried things, his eyes glimmering with a cosmic joke I wasn't yet weary enough to understand. Following his gaze, I felt the hair on my arms rise, half-expecting the air itself to tear and reveal something supernatural. The ancient trees began to whisper in a rising ...
