I opened my eyes, slightly disoriented, then my gaze settled on Luna, curled up in a ball against my pillow. She looked up at me and let out a small hoarse meow before climbing onto my legs to demand some petting. I smiled despite myself and gently ran my hand over her warm back. This simple, quiet moment was a respite from the inner turmoil I had carried all my life.

After a few minutes, I got up, took a quick shower, dressed in black jeans and an oversized gray sweatshirt, then put on my gloves—as always. Before leaving, I took my camera, my faithful companion.

I went down to the cafeteria to have breakfast. As soon as I entered, I saw Nessa already seated at a table, nibbling on a croissant with the air of someone who hadn’t fully woken up yet.

“Hey, slept well?” she called out, waving at me.

I nodded as I sat beside her. We ate together, chatting about nothing in particular. She laughed about a strange dream she’d had, while I stayed a bit lost in thought, watching the other students in the still-quiet room.

When we finished, I saw her quickly pack up and grab her camera.

“Going somewhere?” I asked, curious.

“I’m going to the forest,” she replied with a wink. “Maybe I’ll run into a mysterious spirit.”

She walked away carelessly, camera in hand.

I stood frozen for a moment, watching her figure disappear down the hallway. Then, after a hesitation, I went out as well. But instead of following her, I chose to wander through the campus.

The university, bathed in morning light, had an almost sacred calm. I took advantage of the moment to take several photos: a row of trees with autumn leaves, an abandoned bench under a stone arch, the trembling reflection of a building in a puddle. My camera captured every detail faithfully, but there was always something the lens couldn’t grasp… that strange sensation in the air, as if something was silently watching me.

As I walked along a small path between two buildings, I came face to face with the secretary, a small notebook in her hand.

“Ah, Miss Nia. Need to go into town?” she asked, her usual neutral tone.

“Yes, I’d like to do some errands… and take some photos too.”

She nodded and pulled out a form that I signed without arguing.

“The town is a twenty-minute walk. Don’t linger too long,” she said without looking at me.

I left the campus, my bag slung over my shoulder, and set off along the path leading to the town, crossing part of the forest.

The light changed beneath the trees. The sun barely pierced through the dense foliage. The air was cooler, heavy with humidity, and sounds seemed amplified: the crunch of leaves under my feet, the soft rustle of hidden animals, the distant call of a night bird ahead of its time.

At times, I felt the shadows between the trunks move, a blurry figure following me from the corner of my eye. Vaporous shapes appeared occasionally, suspended between two branches or around a rock’s bend. They seemed neither hostile nor welcoming. Just… present. Neutral spirits, spectators of a world they no longer belonged to. They reminded me of silent passersby on a street, each with a story I would never hear.

I took several photos, trying to capture that strange atmosphere. No spirit appeared in the images… but the silence they conveyed did.

Eventually, the trees thinned, and I emerged into the town.

Small, old, a bit frozen in time, it seemed straight out of another century. Cobblestone streets wound between stone houses with pointed roofs. Half-open shutters let through the scents of coffee and fresh bread. The residents went about their business: a cobbler cleaning his shop window, an old lady feeding stray cats, children running and laughing in the central square.

I pulled out my camera and captured everything I could: children’s laughter frozen in an instant, golden light on dusty panes, the precise gesture of a florist arranging her bouquets. There was something nostalgic about this town… as if it held the memory of everyone who had lived there.

As I continued my exploration, my gaze was drawn to an old stone building covered in ivy. A wooden sign creaked above the door: Municipal Library.

I froze for a moment in front of the entrance. My heart quickened.

Maybe… the answers I sought were hidden inside.

I gently pushed open the library door. It opened with a long, mournful creak, as if unused for years. An ancient scent enveloped me immediately, a mix of yellowed paper, beeswax, and damp wood. The air was colder than outside, almost frozen, as if time had slowed between these walls.

Inside was vast and dark, lit only by tall stained-glass windows that filtered the light into a mosaic of reds, greens, and blues. Massive wooden shelves rose to the ceiling, overflowing with ancient books, rolled parchments, and cracked-cover grimoires. Ladders slid softly along rusty metal rails, sometimes stirred by an invisible draft.

The atmosphere was so silent you could hear the brush of a feather falling. Yet the silence was not empty. It was inhabited. Every step I took seemed observed, listened to by invisible presences lurking among the stacks.

In the center of the room stood a large oak desk, surrounded by unlit candlesticks. Behind it, an old lady seated in a red velvet armchair slowly looked up at me.

She wore a hand-knitted vest, a long gray dress, and an ancient necklace with a black stone pendant. Her white hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her pale gray, almost glassy eyes fixed me with a disturbing intensity.

“Hello,” she murmured, her voice soft but hoarse, like it had been rubbed with dust. “I’ve never seen you here before. Are you from the university?”

I nodded hesitantly.

“I’m new… I was wandering… and I saw the library.”

She smiled slowly, without showing her teeth.

“Few come here… except those who are looking for something they don’t know how to name.”

Her gaze pierced me as if reading my soul, and a shiver ran down my spine.

I approached the desk and placed my fingers on the wood carved with strange, time-worn patterns.

“I’m looking for… books on local legends. The forest. The spirits.”

She didn’t answer immediately. She just stared at me a moment, then rose slowly.

“Follow me,” she said, taking a small oil lantern which she lit with an expert flick.

I followed her down the narrow aisles of the library. The walls seemed to close in slightly as we moved toward the back of the building. The further we went, the colder the air became, as if descending into an invisible basement. Finally, she stopped in front of a dusty shelf.

“Here. Forgotten tales, lost testimonies, things the rest of the world prefers to ignore.”

She reached for a black leather-bound volume with no apparent title.

I took the book. Instantly, a fleeting vision crossed me: a forest in the rain, a figure drowned in fog, and a cry… long, tearing, inhuman.

I blinked, heart pounding.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

She said nothing. She had already vanished between the shelves.

I sat at a dusty table, opened the book slowly… and began to read.

I brushed the cover of the black book, as smooth as a mirror tarnished by time. Opening it felt like awakening something that should have remained asleep. The pages crackled softly beneath my gloved fingers, exhaling a scent of ancient dust, forgotten leather, and faded ink.

The handwriting seemed almost alive — fine, elegant, sometimes trembling as if it had been traced in fever or fear. At the top of the first page, a sentence ran through me like a shiver:

“What we call a tale is sometimes memory. And what we name legend may be more real than the stone beneath your feet.”

I turned the page.

The Legend of the Isle of Misty Sails

In a time so ancient that even the stones have forgotten it, the veil between our world and Annwn Sidh, the Otherworld, was so thin that the Aos Sidh — also called Daoine Sìth or Sìthichean depending on the language — walked freely among men.

These beings, born of mist and light, lived in the hidden folds of the Isle of Skye. There, the Fairy Pools gleamed with their faerie glow, open to the waters where devas swam, benevolent and luminous spirits. At Fairy Glen, the Sìthichean danced beneath the moon, sculpting the hills into spirals no one dares break for fear of disturbing their sacred circle.

But the link between worlds was not granted to all. Only the Druids, guardians of ancient knowledge, and the Cuchulainn, warriors marked by the Sidh, could cross the energy bridges like those at Sligachan or the Fairy Bridge, where once a fairy gave the Fairy Flag to Chief MacLeod before vanishing. It is said that the banner, kept safe at Dunvegan Castle, still whispers in the wind, calling to its forgotten sisters.

On certain nights — Samhain, Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnasadh, or the solstices — the veil grew so thin that one could see the Sgàilean, neutral spirits, prowling among the trees, silent guardians of the world’s secrets. Sometimes, in the mist, a Cytraul, a dark spirit, could also appear, taking the form of shadow or beast, searching for a soul to lead astray.

That is why the ancients built cairns like Rubha an Dùnain, to honor the dead and soothe the spirits. There, forgotten rituals bound the Druids to the breath of Annwn. At Loch Coruisk, the bravest faced the banshee, a shifting spirit, to prove their worth and receive the mark of the Cuchulainn.

The Druids read the signs in the wind, the flames, and the bones. The Cuchulainn, for their part, fought the forces that threatened the balance, their blades blessed by the light of the devas.

It is said that the last of the Cuchulainn rests petrified atop the Old Man of Storr, beside his giant lover. And that the Quiraing, torn by ancient celestial battles, still trembles at the passage of spirits.

At An Corran, even the footprints of giants or dragons speak. Skeptics see fossils there. The wise read the steps of the Sidh.

And still today, when the wind turns on the island, when mist clings to the hills, and the stones sing beneath the rain, some say the veil weakens.

So listen well… for the door to Annwn Sidh could open beneath your feet.

I stopped, my heart pounding. The words vibrated like an incantation. As if they were calling me. As if this book was not telling a story — but mine.

A terrible doubt passed through me:

What if what I called a “curse” was in truth a call?

A reminder of an ancient pact, of a bloodline that never forgot?

I closed the book. Slowly. But my hands trembled.

I stood and returned to the shelves, driven by a dull force. My fingers slid over the cracked spines. I didn’t know what I was looking for… but something was looking for me too.

Something waiting for me to remember.

I leafed through more pages, lost in fragments of a world that seemed to watch from the shadows of ours. My stomach rumbled softly, reminding me there was a more down-to-earth reality than the Aes Sídhe.

I sighed and took from my bag a sandwich carefully wrapped in wax paper. Seed bread, slices of cheese, and fresh arugula leaves. Luna watched me from her hiding spot in my scarf, curled into a ball, pretending not to care. I smiled, broke off a small piece of bread, and discreetly offered it to her. She took it silently, then fell asleep again.

I continued reading while eating, alternating between annotated pages, forgotten diagrams, and names in nearly illegible calligraphy. Hours passed, swallowed by the smell of old paper and the voices of ancestors. A gentle mist filled my head.

But the more I read, the stronger a certainty grew inside me: the answers I sought were not entirely in these books.

They were outside. In the forest. In hollow places. In the breaths of icy wind at twilight.

I closed the book quietly and rose to find the old librarian. She was almost waiting for me, always still, an enigmatic gaze behind thick glasses.

“Excuse me… do you have a detailed map of the forest and its surroundings?” I asked softly.

She studied me for a moment, as if reading between my words.

“No, my dear… But there is a shop across the street. They have all sorts of maps, old and new. You might find what you seek there.”

I said nothing. I thanked her with a small nod and hurried out.

The shop across looked like those timeless stalls you sometimes find in old mountain villages. The wooden sign was cracked, the name erased by time, but a faint red lantern hanging on the door glowed softly despite the daylight. Inside, the air smelled of wax, leather, and old rain.

Shelves sagged under rolls of maps, antique compasses, rope-bound notebooks, and forgotten books. A clock without hands stood behind the counter.

I spent more than half an hour rummaging.

I bought several maps: a modern topographic one, an old hand-drawn map, a strange map of energy flows, and another untitled where the hills seemed animated with faces.

I paid silently. The seller — a white-bearded man with a blurred gaze — said nothing.

Back at the library, I spread the maps on a large wooden table, adding my notebook, pens, and a small black ribbon to mark places.

I began noting the sacred Sidh locations mentioned in the texts.

I drew symbols on the map, inspired by those found in the grimoire: a spiral for passages, a circle for places of balance, a raven’s cross for forbidden sites.

Then, on another sheet, I copied the periods of transition.

I wrote almost mechanically until I stopped abruptly.

My fingers froze on the date of Samhain.

October 31.

I felt my breath catch in my throat. My eyes slowly rose to the top of the page where I had noted my birthday. My heart jumped.

My birthday… is October 31.

I stood frozen. A shiver ran up my neck.

What if it all began that day?

What if my birth coincided with an opening?

With a breach between worlds?

And if… it wasn’t a coincidence?

I had always thought I was cursed.

But what if I wasn’t cursed…

What if I was simply born in the wrong place, at the wrong time?

Or worse: exactly where I needed to be, exactly at the right time.

I put my head in my hands, overwhelmed.

Too many coincidences. Too many silences in my memory.

I rose slowly. The light was fading through the stained glass.

And the forest… seemed to be waiting for me.