It was warm only moments ago.

Stuffy air dissipated to the freshness of green. The cold cuts through me. My lungs feel as if they are made of glass; they crackle with each breath. Being made brittle down to the bone, a slight tremor rippled through me. And yet, it was refreshing. Each bite of wind nipping at my nose and cheeks blushed them bright red; it was welcoming.

I stood on the edge of a forest. A wall of trees just steps away. Their musk filled my nose. Running between two grand oaks, a common path led deeper into the woods. Beaten, but clean of footprints. It guided its traveler around a bend, the end out of sight. One step after another, I began walking. The trees sang to me their siren song.

Hardly any sounds creep through the brush and branch. Not an animal’s scurry or a twig’s snap, all absent from the noise. A tranquility wanted to replace any fear. I hadn’t laid eyes on these woods, these trees, or this underbrush, but they wanted to welcome me like it was home. Twisting arms of the dark oak lulled me, seeming to grow close enough to touch if I stood staring too long. 

Dirt turned to stone as the path curved. At the end, there laid a house. Mist covered the details of the door and the cobblestone path. A few steps forward, and I only feel the rigid and uneven edges announcing their presence under my feet. The house was basked in shadows as the sun fell. I could see an outline—tracing the stone and wood walls, the ragged roof, and the brick chimney—a window, and the faintest light of a burning fireplace through the cloudy glass. The wind dropped the whistle of its melody; the leaves tripped over their dancing feet. 

Back here, it looked like a picture. A painting. I can almost feel the texture of the oil paints on my fingertips. Or maybe I can still smell the acrylic, even long after it has been dried. The still strangeness of the forest crept up my spine. It was a hitch in the universe’s breath. It felt real, as a dream can be to a dreamer, but I don’t recall falling asleep.

Any memories of before these woods were trapped in a haze. A wall of fog, much like the one that separates me from the front door. I don’t know why I recognized the house. Maybe it had come to me in my mind before, maybe it existed in a past life. It feels like visiting your childhood home, after somebody else has already moved into it. Their personal embellishments through just living there cloud the memories of days long ago. I have already said this, but there’s nothing quite like it. The unease from the sounds of a different world, and the comfort of the cabin, create a dissonance. A harmony, not yet resolved. The crunch of the notes filled my ears with a ringing.

There were flowers along the front next to the steps of the porch. Irises and lilacs were planted beautifully, outlining the base of the house. As I got closer, a line of glowing fire peeked out of the crack from a door that was weathered down, no longer big enough to fit its frame. Cinnamon trailed out of the house; the warmth drew me closer. Aged steps creaked under me. I pushed the door open.

A woman stood with her back facing me. She was thin but not frail. In fact, she looked rather strong for her age. Her back did not slope downward, she stood tall and confident. The brightness in her face met me with a smile as she turned at the sound of my footsteps. Kind, soft eyes and rosy cheeks, she looked like a granny from a fairytale.

“Hello, dearie,” she said.

My hand still held the door. She did not seem at all concerned with my intrusion. Quite the contrary, she looked elated.

“Hi,” I said.

“Come in, not a reason to be shy. Step out of the cold.” Her accent is not unlike mine, at a first-time listen. But the dialects of foreign lands shape her words in the rules of their own languages. The voice of the old lady floats in an in-between, neither here nor there. Enigmatic.

A strong, crisp wind tried to push me a step further into the house. Her unimpeded gregariousness was what a parent warns their child to be weary of, but my fingertips were losing feeling. The little heat from the sun was quickly escaping the world, and it was as frigid as could be.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I’m not sure how I got here.”

“Not a worry. You are not the first traveler to stumble upon my steps, nor will you be the last.” 

She rattled this off as she mixed something in a pot on the stove. The inside of the house was a mesh of the old and new. Electric appliances, coal furnace and fireplace, a quill and ink bottle on a desk against a window, a grand bookshelf took up an entire wall.

I cleared my throat. “Sorry to ask but, where am I exactly?”

“Wherever you would like to be.” She walked to the wooden table that sat in the center of it all, two mugs in hand. Placing one down at the chair closest to me, she said, “Sit, child. And stop apologizing.”

I closed the door behind me and walked to the seat. I should be afraid. What seems too good to be true often is, but as if she had cast a spell on me, I felt comfort in this old woman’s presence. She busied herself with the empty pot and cleaned her kitchen. Her movements were smooth, graceful gestures knew the orderliness of the house. Everything had its proper and perfect place.

The drink warmed my chest delightfully. Hot chocolate with cinnamon, almost exactly what my grandmother made in my childhood. I had not tasted it in years. The cold brittleness melted away, and my shoulders relaxed with nostalgia.

“You must be very trusting to let a stranger into your house,” I said, taking another sip.

With her back still turned to me, she responded over the sound of running water. “My home is a home for all.” Once the pot was full, she left it to sit in the sink. The old lady walked to sit in the seat opposite me, grabbing the handle of her mug. “Only those who can be trusted are able to find it.”

“Then it wouldn’t be ‘for all,’” I said.

She hummed her question.

“You contradict yourself. You said, ‘your home is for all,’ but also for ‘only those who can be trusted.’”

A chuckle under her breath, her smile shifted to a more cheeky one, and eyes that glimmered in recognition. She knew something I did not. “A smart one you are,” she said, “A very keen listener will make a very successful somebody.”

My mind was still running. This must be a dream. There was no other explanation. A mysterious house, a puzzlingly hospitable old lady, fragments of memories scattered within these walls, the unknowable woods surrounding us. And me—who becomes anxious and overwhelmed in any new situation—I am completely comfortable.

The crackling fire filled the silence. I looked at the full bookcase. Endless novels lined each shelf. Scanning through each title, I noticed something. Each one had the same name attached. There had to be at least 300 books here. And someone had enough talent to write each and every one.

“Are you an author?” I asked.

“And observant too.” She had been following my line of sight, waiting with a smile for me to connect the dots. “You are a complete package, my dear.”

Who are you? I thought. These books had to be hers. There is no other reason to keep this extensive collection otherwise. How had she written so much in so little time?

Perhaps the queries were written on my face, or perhaps she was a mind reader. She spoke to me calmly, “Child, the time for questions will soon come, but not as soon as you would like,”

As much as I wished to know, I bit my tongue. Surely, I will get answers out of her eventually. “You speak like a wise woman.” I took another sip of my drink.

“That is because I am a wise woman, or else I have lived too long to make my time count for anything at all.” I laughed. I quite like this lady. Her company is pleasant and her conversation is interesting. Still, her being itself is a mystery. So is the forest I find myself in. And yet, she seems so familiar. I cannot place my finger on where I recognize her. 

Millions of questions fly through my head, each one pushing against my lips wanting to be asked and heard. But the time for that has not arrived, as she told me. And I would listen. 

“Tell me, dear. What is your favorite flower?”

A blink out of my thoughts. An unexpected inquiry, to say the least. And it is a slight annoyance that she seems to be the one allowed to ask questions here, but I answer it earnestly nonetheless, “Forget-me-nots.”

“Ah, yes. Lovely, aren’t they? Unfortunately, I have not gotten around to planting any yet. I am glad to see little has changed.” Her eyes trail me up and down from behind her cup. “And yet, too much has as well.”

My thoughts try to poke through the wall they are stuck behind. I know this woman. I am certain of it, but, for the life of me, I cannot remember where we would have crossed paths. With quite the character she is, surely I would have some memory of a previous encounter. 

Sometimes, curiosity gets the betterment of rational thought.

“Have we met before?” I ask.

“In a way,” she seemed to remember her stipulation only after she answered.“I will make an exception for that one question and that one question only. It is still not time.”

It is unfair to put me in front of this enigma of a woman and expect me to not be eager to learn about her story. There are so many answers that I seek, only scratching the surface of who she is. I want to know everything. “Questions are how conversations work,” I said.

“That is true. But, in order for the conversation to move in a way I desire, I must ask the questions.”

My eyes squint at her. “You’re tricky.”

“Yes, but I am alright with that.”

We both laugh. It sounded like a harmony.

“Please do not be fooled to think you are the first child to come across my home with a multitude of questions.”

I leaned back in my chair and straightened my legs out under the table, crossing my arms in front of my chest. If my mother was here to see me like this, she would reprimand me for being unlady-like. But for once, I was completely relaxed. There was no need to be proper. The old lady did not seem to mind either. “I think the issue we have is with the waiting,” I said.

She gave three long nods, continuously agreeing with her own statement, “Yes, the impatience of some youth is astounding.”

I shrugged. “We’re used to having everything quickly.”

“As you age, you will wish everything moved slower.”

“Sometimes, I already do,” my tone dropped. Usually, I would not be so blunt, but the warmness of the home and the comfort of the drink soothed me in a way I had forgotten about. I felt like a child again, but it was not infantilizing. It seemed I was under a mother’s gaze, and there was no need to be wary of judgment in it.

“You feel as though time is running out, correct?” She asked. I nodded. 

A fear I cannot run away from — growing old. It was crippling, leaving me awake at night wondering if I am doing everything that I could do before it is too late. Am I living? Or just making it through the days? What will I regret once I look back at my younger years?  

If there was one thing I could wish for, it would be everlasting youth. Not immortality; that is its own nightmare, but a young face, body, and mind until the day I died. I would even bargain for just the mind. A deteriorating brain is an end I do not want to face. Is one even themselves if they cannot remember who they are?

“You will accomplish everything you have set out to do, and with years to spare. Do not be afraid of a changing world, or a changing mind. It does not rid the best of your soul,” she said. The conviction she carried in her tone. It’s as if she knew what I was thinking. She had more confidence in me than I could ever hope to have for myself. “Do not let that feeling of time slipping away consume you, child.”

“How do you know?” I asked. I was only met with a glance — you know the rules. The drink was finished with one last sip. “This cocoa was really good.”

“A family recipe.” She peered out the window, seeing something and sighing. “It seems time for you to be off now, dear.”

“What?”

“Come along.” It seemed she ignored her rule this once. The old lady stood with her hand at the back of my chair, guiding me up and away from the table. I made no moves to stand, but my legs carried me closer to the door anyway. My body was no longer my own.

But I still had control over my mouth. “I don’t want to go,” I said.

She smiled softly. “Nobody ever does. But you cannot stay here forever.”

Reaching for and turning the knob, she held open the door. Her eyes gleamed with longing. Would she miss me? Does she already? Full of familial love, she looked at me as if I was her own flesh and blood. And as if I would never see her again. She guided me gently out of the house. I tried to stop. “I didn’t get to ask any more questions.”

She placed her hand on my cheek, as if I was made of porcelain. I cannot recall that last time I felt a touch this gentle. “And yet you will find the answer in due time,” she said. “Trust me.”

My emotions got the better of me, and I could not help the tears that welled up. I no longer cared for who I was before this; the person I could not recall. It did not matter to me what—or who—I left behind, the comfort of the home is where I wanted to remain. This lady had been kinder to me than anyone had in a long time. 

Her hand glided away from my cheek. I was back into the cold and dark, back to the trees and underbrush. The aroma of the lilacs replaced the smell of cinnamon as the door shut me off from the lingering scent.

I turned around. The path was gone, as if the cobblestone was sucked back into the earth. The fog was so heavy, I could barely see in front of my face. Tranquility quickly drained away, and all I felt was dread. I did know of anywhere to go, nor did I know how I had gotten here. My mind was much too hazy to come up with any sort of solution. I closed my eyes, trying to think.

And then it was warm again.