It is often said, in hushed tones over an evening fire or perhaps woven into the pages of forgotten books left in the attics of those long since departed, that the Wildwood—a place not marked on common maps—holds secrets, yes, secrets that can rattle even the most cynical of those who traverse its ancient paths with hurried feet, and perhaps a touch of missed breadcrumbs in their pockets soon to be scattered by curious crows.

Just the other day, or was it last week? Time seems to dance strangely beneath the vaulted canopy of the ancient oaks, swinging its pendulum in stuttering, jerky motions, leaving behind a trail of whispering leaves—it felt, or maybe imagined, a sensation like that of the woods breathing softly around me, filling my lungs not with the ordinary air scented by pine and earth, but something deeper, more alive, and it begged the question, why do we run to cities when the forests seems to hold more stories?