Deep in the heart of the oldest forest, where the trees whispered in languages long forgotten, lived a maiden cloaked in the colors of fall. Her hair shimmered like maple fire—reds and golds twined with copper strands—and her dress was stitched from the leaves that never fell, rustling softly with every step. Around her neck hung a single acorn on a silver thread, small and unassuming, yet heavy with promise.
She was called the Autumn Maiden, and where she walked, the forest shifted. Moss turned golden beneath her bare feet. Winds carried the scent of woodsmoke and ripe apples. But what marked her most were the crystals—glowing shards of quartz that circled her like moons. They hovered in silence, bright as stars against dusk, pulsing faintly with each breath she drew. Some said they were drawn to her sorrow. Others claimed they were the remnants of a forgotten magic she had once buried beneath the roots of the world.
No one knew for certain.
She wandered with no path, yet always found those who needed her. A lost hunter, near death from frost, found warmth where her light touched. A grieving mother, heavy with despair, swore the Maiden’s presence stilled her pain. And still the acorn hung, untouched.
It was said the day she planted it, the forest would wake. The quartz would fall. And the world would remember something it had long since chosen to forget.
But the Maiden only smiled, leaves dancing at her heels, and walked on.