It was a dark moonless night. The forest at night might have seemed still and quiet but it never truly slept. A rustle in the shrubs, an owl’s call. The forest was always watching.

The man stood still, afraid to move, not to make any noise. For a few minutes all he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat. It seemed so loud he feared it might alert the forest to his presence. He tried to hold his breath but knew he had to keep going.

There was a faint light in the distance flickering softly through the trees. At first, he thought it was another trick of the darkness. Then, as he drew closer, a faint outline of a small stone house slowly emerged from between the ancient trunks.

He stopped again. A part of him wanted to reach the house as quickly as possible, to leave the darkness of the forest behind. Another part wasn’t sure what awaited him inside.

He took another step.

Once again, he had the unsettling feeling that something was watching him.

He searched the darkness between the trees.

Nothing.

Then, to his left at the edge of the woods, he could just make out the silhouette of a black cat. It sat perfectly still, almost like a statue, barely visible against the darkness, watching him in silence. The cat’s quiet, persistent gaze sent shivers down his spine.

He approached the wooden door and found himself facing another pair of eyes. The Green Man’s grimaced face stared at him from the iron door knocker. He hesitated for a while before putting his hand on it, then three loud knocks broke the night’s silence.

The door opened.

“You’re early” – said the old woman without a smile.

“I don’t know why I’m here” – the man replied. He had expected the sight of another person to bring relief. It didn’t.

The woman simply looked at him. The candles flickered somewhere behind her. The silence stretched long enough for him to wonder whether she had heard him.

“Nobody ever does” – she answered and opened the door wider letting him come inside.

The door shut quietly behind him. He followed her into the kitchen. The space enveloped them with both warmth of the candlelight and a damp earthy chill of the old stone walls. The air carried a faint smell of woodsmoke and dried lavender. Seven candles flickered softly, casting long, dancing shadows across the exposed wooden beams.

The woman silently pointed to one of the chairs at the heavy wooden table.

He sat down. Without a word, the woman put a kettle over the fire. Neither of them spoke. Time seemed to stretch. Was it five minutes? Ten? He noticed there wasn’t a single clock in the room.

The only sound was the gentle crackling of the fire. The kettle gave a quiet sigh as the water slowly warmed. He needed answers. Every passing second became harder to bear. Finally, he blurted,

“Who are you?”

The woman looked at him and ignored the question. She held his gaze for a moment, then turned back to the fire. He was sitting there, looking around, unsure what he was meant to do.

The kettle boiled. The woman made a cup of tea and put it in front of him on the table, “Have some tea. You must be thirsty”.

Tiredness washed over him. The tension that had carried him through the forest slowly dissolved in the presence of the first ordinary thing that night: a simple cup of tea.

He took a sip. The tea was wonderfully warm, tasting of honey, lemon and cloves. Something inside him quietly stopped resisting. He simply sat there. No longer anxious, no longer demanding answers, resigned to the fact he might not get them. A quiet “why am I here?” crossed his mind again but he didn’t say it out loud.

“You’re here to receive something” – the woman said calmly. He frowned.

“I don’t know what it is” – she answered before he asked. The old woman spoke so simply that he believed her. Silence settled between them once more.

One of the candles in the window started flickering more than others as if demanding both of their attention. She took it and placed it on the table. The candle’s flicker subsided, now it was burning strong and steady.

The woman stood up and left the kitchen without a word. A moment later she came back carrying a large leather-bound book with golden ornaments on the cover and along its spine. She placed it carefully on the table between herself and the man.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the uneasiness that had briefly left him returned, and the words died before they reached his lips. The woman looked at him briefly and then her eyes rested on the light of the candle. The light seemed to intensify. She looked at the book, he followed her gaze just to see something astonishing. A thin line of golden light shone between two pages near the middle, as though the book itself were quietly illuminating a single place.

The woman opened the book, looked at it briefly and passed it on for him to read. There was only one sentence on the page. The handwritten letters read I’m sorry I never told you that I love you. The man’s eyes filled with tears. He knew. For a long time, neither of them spoke. After a while, he looked up at the candle on the table. It had burnt down.

The woman reached for the book and closed it abruptly. “You should go now” – she said standing up. With the words still ringing in his head, he stood up and followed her to the old wooden door. She opened it for him and as he was leaving, the black cat passed him quietly as it entered the house.

He took a deep breath, looking at the faint dawn breaking somewhere in the distance. He stepped into the forest.

Somewhere behind him, a single knock echoed through the trees.