Before there was a woodcutter in the clearing, before there was a girl crossing the woods with her wicker basket, before any story of love or secret, the forest already existed. And it was ancient.
The trees there were not like the trees of other places. They were oaks with thick trunks, their bark cracked by time and branches that intertwined high above like the fingers of sleeping giants. There were beeches with silver leaves that shone under the moon, and pines that rose so high their tops disappeared into the clouds. The ground was soft with moss and dry leaves, and the smell of wet earth rose after the rain like a slow breath.
In the heart of the forest, there was a clearing. No one knew exactly how it had formed. Perhaps lightning, in a distant summer, had opened the space between the trees. Perhaps the ancients had cleared the woods to plant, and then abandoned the land. The fact is that the clearing existed, wide and silent, bathed in a sun that pierced the canopy and spilled in golden beams over the grass.
Near the clearing, a stream ran. The water was cold and clear, coming from the mountains to the north, and it ran over smooth stones that gleamed like coins. It was there that the animals of the forest came to drink—deer, foxes, hares, and occasionally a wild boar that no one dared confront. The stream followed its course, crossed the woods, and emptied into a larger river, which in turn carried the waters far away, to lands that no one there knew.
There were also the gnomes. But they lived hidden, in burrows inside hollow trunks or under giant roots, and only appeared when they wanted to. Most people in the region didn't even know they existed. And those who did preferred not to mention it.
— -
An hour's walk from the clearing, following the dirt road that wound between the trees, lay the village of Pedra Alta. The name came from the mountains that surrounded it—walls of gray rock that rose to the north and east, protecting the village from cold winds and wild animals. The village had about three thousand inhabitants, which was not little by the region's standards. There were streets of packed earth, houses of wood and stone, a central square with an old fountain, a church with a tall tower that could be seen from afar, a bakery that opened before sunrise, a tavern that closed after midnight, and a small jail, with thick walls and tiny windows, that rarely had occupants.
The man who governed Pedra Alta was named Horácio. He was a middle-aged man, short and stocky, with a protruding belly and small eyes that missed no detail. He wore clothes of good quality, but without excess—a wool coat, leather boots, a wide-brimmed hat that hid the beginning of his baldness. He had governed the village for fifteen years, and in all those years, no one could say he was unjust. Arrogant, yes. Petty, sometimes. Grumpy, almost always. But fair. When a difficult decision had to be made, Horácio made it. And when the village had to be defended, he defended it.
That morning, Horácio was in his office, seated at the polished wooden table, with the account book open in front of him. The light from the window fell on his face, and he drummed his fingers on the table, a habit that accompanied him whenever the numbers didn't add up. The village was growing, and with growth came problems. More people, more houses, more food, more taxes. And Horácio, who liked order above all, did not tolerate disorder.
- Sir? — the voice came from the door. It was the chief of the guard, a tall man with a stubbly beard. — The baker sent word that the flour has arrived. And the blacksmith wants to talk about the price of coal.
Horácio raised his eyes.
- Tell the baker to send the bill. And tell the blacksmith to wait. I don't have time for everything at once.
The guard nodded and left. Horácio returned to the accounts, but his mind was far away. He thought of the village square, which needed repairs. Of the wooden benches, which were rotting from the damp. Of the fountain, which was clogged with leaves. The village needed a craftsman. Someone who knew how to work with wood. Someone who could fix what was broken and build what was missing.
He made a note in the book and closed it. Tomorrow, he would send someone to look.
— -
On the other side of the village, in a simple house on the outskirts, Magda woke with the sun hitting the window. She lived alone. She had never married. She said she hadn't yet found the right man, but the truth is that the men of Pedra Alta avoided her. Magda was too intense, too clingy, and had a habit of falling in love with anyone who gave her attention. She had already fallen in love with the blacksmith, the baker, the blacksmith's son, and a traveler who had passed through the village two years ago and never returned. None of them had reciprocated.
That morning, Magda got up, put on the wine-colored dress she thought favored her, and looked at herself in the mirror. The reflection showed a woman of about forty, with brown hair tied in a tight bun, light eyes that she thought were prettier than they really were, and a smile that tried to be sweet but came out forced.
- Today is going to be a good day — she said to herself. — Today I'm going to meet someone.
She left the house and walked to the square. The village was already bustling. The baker was opening the bakery door, the blacksmith was lighting the forge, and the women were going to the fountain to fetch water. Magda greeted some of them, but no one stopped to talk. She wasn't exactly liked there.
She sat on a bench in the square and watched the movement. Children ran, men went to work, women chattered. Magda sighed. She wanted to be part of that. She wanted to be seen, noticed, desired. But no one looked at her.
That was when she saw the village owner leaving his office, with a closed face and the account book under his arm. He passed by her without greeting. Magda felt her chest tighten. Not even Horácio looked at her.
- One day — murmured Magda, in a low voice. — One day someone will see me.
She didn't know, at that moment, that fate was about to change. That