Sylphina

The forest was alive with whispers, though no voice could be heard. Towering trees, their trunks twisted with age, stood like silent sentinels, their leaves murmuring secrets in the wind. Shafts of light pierced through the dense canopy above, scattering golden patterns across the mossy ground. The air was thick with the scent of earth and rain, and a faint hum seemed to vibrate through the trees—a melody that belonged to this enchanted place alone. It wasn’t the kind of forest people wandered into by chance. Legends spoke of it, though no one seemed to agree on its name or purpose. Some said it was a haven for spirits, others a prison for lost souls. But one thing was certain: no one who entered left unchanged. The deeper you walked, the more the world behind you faded, as if swallowed by the woods themselves. The silence grew heavier, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of unseen birds. It felt as though the forest were watching, waiting. Then, as if drawn by an invisible hand, the path ahead began to shift. The trees seemed to part ever so slightly, revealing a space bathed in soft, ethereal light. There was something different about this clearing—something alive and aware. Here, the forest’s whispers grew louder, almost beckoning, as if guiding you toward something, or someone, who had been waiting for you all along. Shes a young fairy, but in human years, around 70