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At the stroke of twelve
The stall keeper pauses
Some say he still walks the ocean floor
It began at the boundary where the summer fair dissolved into hedges and foxgloves
No one remembers the names of those who once wandered those halls
Sprig of Secrets necklace At the stroke of twelveSomewhere in the hollow, I twist through roots and moss, searching. My tiny hands trace the earth, brushing against stone and leaf, desperate for the wand I lost. It is small, unassuming, yet it carries a pulse of the forest I cannot forget the hum of life, the whisper of magic threaded into wood. I hear it before I see it, faint and insistent, glinting where the moonlight catches the curves of a twig. My chest lifts with hope, claws trembling as I
