Have you ever walked into a place and felt like you were stepping onto the pages of a forgotten story? That’s how I felt when I first stumbled into the Frost Glade, with its crystalline trees that glinted like they'd been etched by starlight, standing in eerie formation as if guarding secrets only the wind understood. Continue onward.
It was one of those days where time seems to twine like tendrils of vine around your consciousness, and you forget the world outside the glade exists, wrapped as you are in layers of snow and whispered promises of adventures untold. And there, the path diverged, presenting choices that felt heavy with portent, as if they knew more about your fate than you did. Turn back.
I’ll never forget the sound—the crunch beneath my boots mingling with the subtle rustle of frosted leaves, like a chorus serenading the clumsy intruder into its serene realm. It was then I realized, some glades are not places on maps, but states of being, where you lose track of why you came in the first place and start to revel instead in the journey itself. Stay awhile.