Once upon a time, long, long ago, the Earth was inhabited by magical creatures — some beautiful and benevolent, others bizarre and frightening. They were the true dwellers of this gorgeous planet, long before humans arrived.

When we first appeared, we naturally belonged to the magical world. Some of us carried magic within: wizards, witches, warlocks, sorcerers, druids, enchantresses. Others lived more ordinary lives, yet all could see and feel the magic. Human existence was intertwined with that of other beings.

Fairies tended our gardens, coaxing blossoms into bloom. Gnomes dwelled in the woods, sharing their burrows with forest animals.
Giants kept to themselves, living far away from the bustle, for they were not the most sociable creatures.
And in the shadows lurked ogres, werewolves, banshees, and baba yagas — beings best avoided by wise folk.

It was a peaceful coexistence of light and shadow, human and non-human. Until, one day, people caught the virus of rationality.

Druids became lumberjacks. Warlocks turned into powerful businessmen. Sages and wizards were replaced by scientists who filled their vials and flasks with chemicals instead of potions.

Harmony gave way to dissection, to breaking the world apart to understand it. The more we analyzed, the less we could see. Piece by piece, we stripped the world of its magic.

As the virus spread and the green Earth disappeared beneath concrete, many magical creatures fled to other realms. Some retreated deep into wilderness too wild for humans to enter. Some fell into a deep, ancient sleep. A few — the most hopeful — still linger among us, waiting for humanity to heal enough to see them again.

Though most people forgot the old world, some of us remain drawn to it, as if hearing its faint call — the whisper that life makes more sense when lived close to nature.

I am fortunate to live on the edge of the woods. Even if I cannot see the whole magical world, I can feel it around me. Over the past few years, I’ve noticed the ground in our garden shifting. The slope has grown steeper; small rises and bumps appear where there were none before.

Sometimes I wonder: Is one of the ancient giants lying beneath us?
Did he fall asleep thousands of years ago, become covered in earth, and now stirs gently in his sleep?

When we tend to the garden, I imagine the giant beneath us feeling our presence — soft tickles, tender scratches. And I wonder what would happen if he woke. Would he rise carefully enough not to crush our little house?

The thought can be frightening… yet strangely comforting. The idea of magical neighbours feels more joyous than perilous.

Maybe the giant wanted me to notice him. Maybe he has been waiting. Maybe he hopes humans will awaken first — remembering that the magical world is where we originally belonged. Perhaps only then will he be able to open his eyes again.

We need to let the magic flowing through the living world nurture us back to health and lead us once more into our Mother Nature’s soft, green embrace.

And Mother Nature waits patiently for her lost children. She sings to us through the whispering wind and the gentle drumming of rain. She sends flowers every spring. She asks her messengers — our loyal furry companions, cats and dogs — to stay by our side, guarding the last thread of connection, keeping the virus from consuming us entirely.

Eternally loving, endlessly forgiving, she keeps the soft mossy cushions ready for our tired heads, whenever we choose to come home.