Welcome, the mist is rising, please make yourself comfortable. There’s tea in the pot, or perchance, you brought some wee dram of your own.
The seat by the window gives the best view, allows for the easiest of hearing. Ignore the cats, no matter what they say, and don’t open the window for the crows.
I’ll be working at the table in the corner, if you have any need, or she knocks upon the door. And until you stop by again, may your wonderings be bold and your imaginings be wise.
Until your next visit, the next photograph, the next 12-line story, good fortune and safe wanderings.
This last entry is for you, if you’ve read the letters you will find this notebook buried among the roots of that ancient oak tree which stands at the edge of the footpath leading from the village green, the only landmark I have described to you.
During the past six months while I have been walking these woods, haunting these woods both day and night, you have been with me always, please believe that.
Last night, as the moon set, I had decided to abandon this foolish quest. My tired heart recalled your warnings, decided you may have been right and the stories were just the ramblings of an old lost imagination.
This morning as the sky filled with blue, I packed up, believing this would be my last rambling in these woods, an ending, but now, it will be my beginning. I’ve found the gate. I’ve opened it, closed it, and have it opened again.
The gate stands north of the oak, about ten feet away. A simple structure, wooden pickets painted white, wide, with a black iron latch. Iron, I never would have guessed that.
If you do try to follow, if you can still read this notebook, pay attention to the notes about the weather, to the mist rising from the river.
Forgive me for not bringing you with me, for lying, but I know she’s there, beyond that gate.