The Woman
She carried her daughter with her, always.
Not in her arms, nor in laughter filling the home, but in the silence. In the dust that thickened on untouched shelves. In the way the wooden floor creaked beneath her rough, bare feet, as if the house itself sighed with her.
The morning light, soft and golden, stretched through the shutters, cutting across the small, cluttered space. It illuminated the cups left unwashed, and the table littered with forgotten things. A half-burned candle sat crooked in its holder, ready to fall. A small chair, once tucked neatly under the table, was slightly askew, as if someone had just been sitting there.
She did not tidy.
She had stopped trying.
Instead, she moved toward the small hearth, where the iron kettle sat in its usual place. She reached for the familiar bundle of dried flowers and blueberry juice. What was left of the butterfly pea blossoms left a deep blue against her fingertips. Her hands trembled as she measured them into the cup, watching as the water darkened, swirling into the color her daughter had loved so much.
"Like magic!" she had once giggled, cupping her small hands around the warm ceramic.
The magic in this home was gone now.
The memory sat beside the woman as she sipped in silence.
She did not cry. Not anymore.
Instead, she let the tea settle in her chest, warm, but not comforting.
It no longer was.
She sat in stillness as the world outside woke without her.
Beyond the window, crows cawed from the trees. Their cries cut through the morning air, slicing the cold with their grating sound.
The wind stirred through the open shutters, carrying the scent of morning bread from the village beyond. She heard the distant, rhythmic clang of a blacksmith at his forge. The world moved on without her.
It always had.
Even before the incident, she had been on the edges of their world. The husbandless woman. The woman whose child had no father. The woman who lived alone in the small, forgotten dwelling at the village’s edge.
They had never said it outright, not when she first arrived, not when her daughter was born, not in the years she spent scraping by with quiet resilience. But she had always felt it. The sideways glances, the whispers that lingered just beneath the surface of conversation. A woman on her own was something unnatural. Something to be pitied at best, distrusted at worst.
And now, she had given them a reason to confirm what they already suspected. A reason to call her cursed.
Her tired eyes drifted, almost unthinking, across the room.
Near the door, a small pair of shoes still sat neatly side by side. Untouched. A thin film of dust dulled their once white color, as though time had tried to claim them, but had not quite succeeded.
In the farthest corner of the room, a stuffed rabbit lay slumped against the wall, its fur tangled with cobwebs. Its stitched mouth still curved in a quiet, patient smile. Waiting for its playmate to return.
Above the hearth, a picture of her daughter, her face caught mid-laugh, had fallen from its frame.
Tucked against the wall, near the back door, a folded quilt in a box lay defeated where she had placed it. Forgotten, dust settling into the folds of its once vibrant fabric.
By the window, a line of small clothes hung limp, still damp with sorrow. Left out to dry but never removed. The clothing had stiffened, the scent of river water long faded, but she forgot. She had meant to take them down.
But she never did.
Her fingers curled around the rim of the empty cup.
She had been inside too long. The thought was sudden. Unwelcome.
Her fingers tightened around the hot ceramic, debating. But in the end, she rose. She would go to the village today. It was not a grand decision. Not a meaningful one, but it was movement.
She turned, stepping past the forgotten shoes, the small fallen portrait, the cobwebbed rabbit, the dusty blanket, the clothes still waiting to be folded . . . all the things she had let time settle over.
For the first time in three weeks, she reached for her cloak.
After taking a long, deep breath, she opened her door.
And she stepped outside.
#
The village had not changed. It still hummed with life, just as it had before.
Market stalls lined the cobbled square, their canopies fluttering in the wind. The air was ripe with the scent of fresh bread, roasting chestnuts, and something spiced drifting from the apothecary’s door. Children wove through the crowd, their laughter ringing like bells. Merchants called out their wares. Coins clinked. Sly voices bartered dubious wares. Life went on, as if nothing happened.
As if she never happened.
The woman moved through it unseen. No one turned to look at her, not at first. But she felt them . . . the glances, the quiet pauses in conversation, the murmurs just beneath the surface.
They knew who she was. They knew what had happened. And they judged her for it.
She gripped the handle of her basket tighter, holding her breath as if that would help her disappear.
She kept her green eyes down, weaving past carts of ripened pears, dried meats, and sugared almonds. She did not stop until she reached the small shop tucked at the edge of the square.
The bell chimed softly as she stepped inside the old, dusty shop.
Warmth wrapped all around her. The familiar scent of dried herbs, parchment, and lavender oil. This place had always been a quiet, safe place. A place she had once brought her sweet daughter, the child’s small hands brushing along the shelves, her voice full of endless questions.
Other patrons mingled and murmured in hushed voices as she entered,
The shopkeeper beamed happily at her from behind the counter.
“Oh my! It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen you here!”
She only nodded.
The woman stepped around a crate of dried sage, brushing flour from her apron. “What can I get you, dear?”
“Lavender,” she murmured. “And sugar cane.”
The shopkeeper clasped her hands together. “Oh, that’s right! You always got those with . . . ”
Silence.
A breath held in the air, fragile and unspoken. The color drained from the woman’s face immediately. Her mouth hung open as if the words had just now caught up to her.
The shopkeeper had forgotten.
Just for a second.
The world was already forgetting her. How could it?
She had spoken as though nothing had changed, as though there was still a small girl waiting at home to bake her favorite treat.
But there wasn’t.
The shopkeeper swallowed hard.
“I-I . . .” she faltered, her hands twisting in the fabric of her apron. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I—”
“It’s fine,” the woman said.
Her voice was flat. Empty. Tired.
The shopkeeper hurried to the shelves, pulling down bundles of dried lavender and a small wrapped block of sugar cane. She set them on the counter with careful hands.
“No charge,” she said quickly.
The woman left the coins anyway. She gathered the items into her basket, fingers brushing against the woven rim. The air in the shop felt constrictive and suffocating. She needed to leave. Now.
As she turned toward the door, she heard them. The whispers.
She didn’t have to look to know that the other women in the shop had stopped talking. That they were staring now, their voices hushed beneath the sound of clattering horses outside, and other patrons half-hearted conversations.
“She’s still grieving.”
“Poor thing. She hasn’t been the same since.”
“Did you hear? Someone said she still keeps the child’s things just as they were.”
“I heard she wasn’t even there to stop it. She just let her wander off. Seems it could’ve been avoided.”
“Terrible shame. Terrible mother.”
She hung her basket of goods on her elbow and forced herself forward.
She would be home soon. Out of this wretched place. But then, a voice from behind a shelf spoke out. Soft and certain, like it knew.
“I heard she’s going into Kyohi Forest.”
She stilled.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” a man’s voice muttered. “No one ever goes into that place. It is evil. It is filled with tricks. It is filled with death.”
“But I heard she’s looking for . . . the Witch.”
The sentence settled heavy in the small shop air.
The Witch.
"Another fool goes to seek the Witch," a man grumbled. "She won’t return. None of them ever do.”
"Aye," another voice agreed, quieter. "There was one before. Years ago. Never seen again. Either she found what she sought . . . or died trying.”
She kept walking, pushing through the door, out into the cold, open air. The bell jingling loudly from her rushed exit, as a murder of crows stared down from the rooftop.
The black creatures cawed after her, mirroring the surrounding gossip as she strode off.
She did not stop until the village was behind her.
#
Back at her home, the scent of lavender filled the small, cold dwelling at the edge of the village.
It curled through the air, sweet and warm, weaving between the cracks in her plastered walls, settling into the dust that had made a home there. She had not baked in weeks.
Her kitchen felt different because of it.
The soft scrape of her spoon against the wooden bowl. The way the flour puffed into the air when she pressed her palms into the dough. The warmth rising from the oven, wrapping around her like a quiet embrace.
For a moment, just a small moment, it felt as if nothing had changed at all.
Her hands worked with a rhythm they had not forgotten. With a rhythm she had danced to every week for seven years.
Measure. Stir. Shape.
Seven years . . .
She had done this many times. Her daughter’s small hands had once mirrored her own, rolling out dough beside her, giggling as flour dusted her tiny nose. Guiding those chubby fingers to twist the batter into shapes.
She closed her eyes.
Seven years . . .
She could almost hear it.
The laughter in the room, the small humming of her child’s voice, the consuming of fresh, lavender cookies. The past and present blurring for a fleeting second, until . . . the oven crackled.
The moment was gone.
She inhaled sharply and set the spoon aside on the counter. She moved methodically, laying the small lavender cookies onto a tray, pressing each one gently with a single heart shape before sliding them into the fire-warmed oven.
She watched them bake, sitting silently in the small chair her daughter once occupied.
#
By the time the cookies cooled, the sky outside had deepened to the color of twilight ink.
She sat at the table, the basket before her.
She had waited long enough.
The rumors had been whispered all her life. Before she was even born it seemed.
The Witch of Kyohi Forest was nothing more than a story told in hushed voices, a warning passed like rumor in the market square. A woman who could do the impossible. A powerful woman who could take away pain. Who had the power to do the unimaginable.
Some said she would kill you and eat you.
Some said she would simply take what you carried, leaving your arms empty and heart hollow.
Some said she could bring the dead back to the realm of the living.
No one agreed on the truth. But no one dared to find out. The forest was dangerous. The forest was alive. No one who entered came back the same. If they ever came back at all.
And yet . . .
There were rules.
The stories, despite their contradictions, always spoke of the same thing: if you sought the Witch’s power, you had to bring her something of the one you lost.
Not just anything. The four best things.
The objects most tied to their essence. The things that held pieces of them, soaked with their presence, their touch, their joy. The spell could not work without them.
So, she had chosen carefully.
Meticulously.
Her eyes welled as she reached for the first item.
The small, painted picture.
She turned it over carefully, as though the movement itself might disturb the girl smiling within its edges. The frame was cracked from when it had fallen, so she’d discarded it. The portrait was all she needed anyway.
Next, the small bundle of lavender cookies, carefully wrapped in cloth. The smell was still strong. Sweet, but no longer warm. Her daughter’s favorite.
She hesitated on the stuffed rabbit.
Its fur, once soft, was tangled from years of being held. Her daughter had clutched it every night. It felt wrong somehow, to take it.
Bringing it to her face she could still smell her. Oh how she missed that smell. Yet, she placed it in the basket anyway.
The quilt was last.
It was old, worn from years of use, its once-vibrant threads faded with time. A patchwork of fabric scraps, stitched together with love.
Her daughter had adored it.
On extra cold nights, they would burrow beneath it together, the warmth of their bodies melting into its softness. It had been a fortress in the living room, draped over chairs to make castles. A ship on stormy seas. A hiding place from monsters, always made safe again by the glow of a candle and a mother’s arms.
The rabbit had always been part of the stories.
Her daughter would press its little paws together, whispering funny secrets only the stuffed creature could hear, wrapping it snugly in the blanket before curling up beside it for her afternoon naps.
Gingerly, the woman folded it, and tucked it delicately into the basket beside the rest.
Tightening her cloak around her shoulders, she pulled the basket close and stepped toward the door.
It was night now. Only the moon illuminated the land. But the moon was all she needed.
The house was dark behind her, weighted with things left unsaid. With life not lived.
She did not look back. She stepped over the threshold, and she left.
#
The field stretched before her, golden and brittle beneath the moonlight.
The brisk wind moved through it in slow, whispering waves, bending the stalks of dried grass like a thousand reaching hooks. They brushed against her legs as she walked, clawing and snagging at the hem of her cloak, as if trying to slow her. As if trying to stop her.
She did not stop.
Kyohi forest loomed ahead, black against the dark sky. An endless wall of trees, their branches tangled so thickly that not even the moonlight could reach beyond their might.
She reached the edge and halted.
The difference was instant.
The air was still here. The wind that had followed her through the field died at the tree line. The world beyond the forest felt deeper, vaster, as though it had no end.
She let out a slow breath and watched as the wisps of grey exited her mouth.
Then, she lowered the basket to the ground.
Her fingers clenched around the fabric of her cloak, pulling it tighter around herself, as if the existence of it could anchor her. She was not afraid. Not truly. But something in the forest watched and waited. She could feel it.
For a moment, she turned.
The village beyond still burned soft and warm in the distance. The light from the windows flickered like small, golden lanterns against the dark.
The woman thought of all the whispers.
“She’s still grieving.”
“Poor thing, she hasn’t been the same.”
“Did you hear? It was her fault.”
The woman swallowed. Then she huffed.
She bent, lifted the basket back into her arms, and without another glance at the village, marched forward. That’s when the forest swallowed her whole.
