Gnomes live ten times faster than humans.
They’re harder to see than a high-speed mouse.
— Terry Pratchett

I live in a very special place, far from other houses, far from roads, far from the noise of human civilization. My home is wrapped in nature, with quiet woods resting just behind the garden.

I rarely cross the little bridge that separates me from the realm of men. Instead, I prefer to breathe in the forest air and spend my days in the company of all the creatures — big and small, visible and invisible — that live around me.

I share my woods with three friendly deer who sleep here at night and sometimes happen to wander through the garden during the day.
A raven keeps watch from the top of the great tree that overlooks my home. There are foxes, mischievous squirrels, countless birds, and more spiders than one can imagine. It’s truly wondrous here.

And then there is the other realm — the ancient realm that existed long before us. A wise old tree stands as guardian of the boundary between the woods and the marshes beyond, where humans are not welcome.
I know I am only a guest in this place, and I honour that.

A little farther on, near the Foxtail Woods, rests the Lying Swamp.
All year round it is gorgeously green, adorned with delicate summer flowers and, in winter, draped in a soft, luminous moss. It smells of damp earth and old secrets. It lures passers-by to step into its embrace… and sometimes swallows them whole.

I always sensed there must be beings living in that swamp. There was always a presence — subtle, watchful. And one winter morning,
I finally got my proof.

Fresh snow had fallen during the night, covering everything with
a sparkling white blanket. I walked toward the Foxtail Woods, feeling guilty for disturbing the pristine surface with my footprints. When
I reached the edge of the swamp, I noticed a trail of tiny prints in the snow — no bigger than those of a two-year-old child.

The footprints circled trees and bushes several times, weaving through the winter ground. I followed them, trying to see where they might have begun. There were no adult tracks nearby, no sign of anyone else in the woods. At last, I found their origin.

They emerged directly from the Lying Swamp.

A little shiver ran through me — not of fear, but of wonder. Suddenly the air felt charged, as if the whole forest were quietly watching.

Since that day, walking through those woods has never been the same. Every rustle in the leaves might be the local gnome, racing past at ten times human speed. I imagine him darting behind my back, or teasing the foxes by tugging their tails before vanishing into the dense undergrowth.

This world is full of ancient magic we forget when we become entangled in the struggles of our human lives. We remain blind to more than we see.
And some things can only be seen when we keep our hearts wide open.