Orange and golden leaves dangling from towering poplars bobbed and nodded, stirred by passing winds. Shreds of cloud streamed by against the blue backdrop of heaven. The floor of the woods was mottled with the tints of early November. Shadows, long, thin, and stout, moved quietly: full of grief and regret, intense agony, and fervent longing; their stomping feet were never heard. Dark figures- nightmare-like things- flitted by on silent wings.

  Eunha moved slowly, painfully, through her woods. Her steps were heavy, often crunching fallen leaves and twigs underneath their tramp. Her tree-hut loomed over the wooded avenue in the distance. It was a walk that took a handful of minutes in her youth, but now it felt like hours. That is why in her hand she bore several poisonous mushrooms: things that, on their own, were insignificant, but when combined with other ingredients, granted vigor.

  The door to her hut creaked as it swung on its rusty hinge. Once inside, the shadow children on the wall paused to see her groan and curse, until she caught notice of their mocking gestures and, with a wave of her hand, scattered them about. She had a great black cauldron hanging on a rack over the fire, which crackled and shot off tiny embers now and again. It was not sin that brewed in her cauldron; rather, it was a stew. She stirred the contents: distinct flowers, along with some moss that she had scraped off a tree and fresh water from a small pond she frequented. Her bony hand plopped the poison mushrooms inside, and she watched them sink and then rise up to float on the surface of the stew. It was medicine to soothe the damage done by the ravages of Time.

  It hurt to lie down. It hurt to sit. It hurt to stand for too long, and it hurt much more to walk, especially over uneven ground. There were nagging pains in her hip, soreness in her neck, aches in her lower back, and numbness in her fingers; her joints popped and cracked. This stew, once drunk, would settle in her stomach and, from there, reach all her bones and muscles, and eventually her heart- all in order to renew life a little.

  Neither Eunha nor Agnes (when she was alive) could create life. Yet, they could bring youth out of old age, even if for only a while. This medicine would, in time, fail to work for Eunha as it did for Agnes, the Mother-witch. However, when countless centuries would have passed their course and the Hour of Death would have arrived to claim Eunha's life, she would not die. This she kept in her weak, immortal heart.

  The stew bubbled and its reek spread across the home, small wisps of green vapor ascending upwards to reach the high ceiling. As she hovered over the cauldron, her thin, colorless lips mumbled some words. The shadow children on the wall huddled together in fear- she was opening her haunt to visitors. Whether it was a single year, a decade, or a handful of centuries (according to our usual reckoning of hours, days, months, and years) that had passed outside the forest in the world of men since she last opened her haunt, Eunha did not know.

  With a ladle, she poured of the finished stew into a brass bowl and hastened to sip it. She breathed in the trails of steam, and so vigor returned to her veins. Her limbs moved with fluid ease, and no longer was she pestered by nagging pains. She felt as though she had awoken from a horrible nightmare- a nightmare called old age.

  Quickly, she stirred through her home in search of a mirror. The mirror offered no flattery, unmasking the truth of her wizened face. However, in a moment's time, that would change. She scoffed at her palm mirror, wagged her thin finger at it, and swayed her head disapprovingly, like a sage disagreeing with a simpleton. The mirror always taunted her with base jests, showing hollow eyes, pasty flesh, and sagging s; it had no real notion of taste and no aesthetic sense. Eunha knew real taste: the soft contours of youth and the hint of red upon springing cheeks, along with a special glint in shining eyes.

  With a hoarse voice, she half-spoke, half-sang blasphemous words before the mirror. The shadows on the wall stretched their heads to glance above her. Those trapped souls of children lost centuries ago witnessed the witch's superficial transformation, her pseudo-rejuvenation. For, while the mirror cast back a lovely reflection of a warm and kindly girl, it was a lie.

  Yes, her skin appeared to glisten with a soft radiance; and her lips, a dark shade of red, were sweet enough to kiss; her locks were inky black, long, and voluminous. But it was all pretense. Eunha had spent countless hours lost in the pages of Agnes' books, but it was all for naught. The wisdom of ages failed to claim that which Time never ceased to steal: youth. Thus, at best, all the witch could do was hide under the covers of a lie, a flimsy mask of faux-beauty that could fool the world but could never truly satisfy her.

  Eunha lived with a groaning of the heart. She lived with a restless longing, a yearning for something else, something she could not find in magic or beauty; and there was no real meaning to life except to fulfill her Mother-witch's sole wish: to live out her days until The End of All would come. Until then, she trifled her days away. Her magic entertained for a while, and the souls that roamed her woods made her laugh, but it was all transitory.

  Once her face assumed the guise of a young woman, the illusion was complete (the stew having increased her vigor). She danced on her toes, spun, and leapt across her cozy home while the shadows stood in awe of her beauty. Some of the trapped souls cursed her silently, and those who dared did not go unpunished. She lifted a hand and performed some circular motions, each revolution hurling the shadow children across the wall and back. Then she laughed with a ringing note, a note of ecstasy.

  In the depths of her mind, Eunha was already devising what kind of trick she would play on the passersby who would come to her forest.

  They were her playthings. She considered them no better than pets, dumb animals who followed their base instincts, whose sole reason of existence was to entertain. But it was not always like this. It took long before she reached that mindset. She had been betrayed by all whom she loved, and the pain of their betrayal lingered for many years, manifesting in resentment and bitterness towards all people without discrimination. It lingered and lingered, until she came to the conclusion that humans were beings who were driven by impulse. People claimed to love and care, but did they really? No, Eunha asserted, they were quick to toss the terms around, but they never knew the meaning of them, and if it seemed they did, it was only a vague understanding.

  If there was anything of value in people, it was their faith in the supernatural- in gods, fairies, and the things beyond the fields they knew. It was the reaching into these supranormal places that constituted the one quality of which it might be said that Eunha sympathized with. She saw it in their songs and their poems, in their stories and their art. However, even this quality lost its value whenever it mingled with fear to become unbridled superstition or else became a tool with which to rule over the ignorant.

  With little intrinsic meaning to them, the witch began to toy with the hearts of her visitors, both young and old. There was nothing sweeter to her, more hysterical, than having men fall in love with her faux-beauty, only to cast off her mask and reveal her ghastly visage. Some of her prey, the more handsome or interesting, she would keep as silent shadows imprisoned in her forest to await The End of All with her. The others- some died immediately as a result of shock, and the rest, she let go, their minds lost forever in lunacy (they lost their way in The Invisible Woods and eventually died). The women, however, especially the young and beautiful ones, who wandered inside her forest suffered a fate worse than death, and all because they reminded Eunha of how her face had been marred by age.

  She lifted her head, straining her ears to hear if any visitors had arrived. Immediately, a crow began to caw. A strong current of air rushed through the autumn-colored poplars, briskly shaking their limbs and causing countless leaves to fall. A welcome foot had stepped inside her trap.

  Hastily, she worked her art on her rags to make them appear like a hand-sewn cotton dress dyed in blue that, although fairly simple in its design, nevertheless possessed a certain noble flair. Once done, she ran outside, slamming the door of her hut so hard that it shook the giant tree it was made from. Who would it be, a man or woman? She hoped for a man, perhaps a little over the age of twenty. Of course, she could have used her magic to see who it was, but that always spoiled the surprise. In her life, comprised of days that blended into each other so that the last one resembled the one some weeks ago, and tomorrow was as today, she cherished surprise.

  There was a certain old oak in her woods, second only to the tree her hut was made from in ancientness, and she favored the shade cast by this ancient tree more than any other. Under its canopy of branches, she felt a distinct warmth, almost a sense of nostalgia- a feeling of being welcome. She did not understand why she felt this attachment. Perhaps it was due to its antiquity, or maybe Agnes had enchanted it long ago. Ultimately, she had no idea why, not even when she used magic to discover the reason. Nevertheless, this spot, so favored and loved, near the entrance of the woods, was the one where she always chose to sit and wait for visitors.

  Fortunately, by the time she reached that ancient oak, planted long ago by men who came from across the ocean (where she had once lived before Agnes took her in), the visitor had yet to pass through. She sat with her back leaning against the trunk and feigned sleep. Overhead, the sun cast a beam that pierced through the treetops and half-shone on her face. Minutes passed, every agonizing second prolonging the suspense. Then came the tramp of feet: careful steps that barely crunched fallen leaves. The gait sounded full of grace, without a hint of clumsiness, alluding to a soul in tune with the beauty of the woods: one who, in their walk, breathed in the wonder of nature and exhaled gratitude for its glamour.

  Eunha became disillusioned. In her time, when she was nothing but the daughter of a poor blacksmith, such appreciation of the aesthetics of nature was often attributed to the women, not the men, who lived by the sweat of their brow. She patted around the encompassing dirt and retrieved a handful of leaves. These she crushed in her hand. With much bitterness, she opened a single eye and glanced up to see a man some distance away. She stifled a smile and waited patiently now that she saw her thoughts were thankfully wrong.

  The witch waited first, for ten minutes, and then for what felt like an hour. The sun had since moved from its erstwhile position; it no longer her face. Her gentle form was dappled in shadows. She had heard no sound- some breaths were inhaled quietly with a quick intake and almost inaudible sighs, but nothing else. It was as if she had seen a mirage, and it may have been except for her hearing his breathing.

  With her eyes still closed, and her ears perked up for sound, she finally heard what resembled a footfall- a subtle, almost weightless tap on the soft ground. Was the man aware of her trap? And so, like a careful bird, he merely hovered around the snare?

  Yet she heard the man move with a measured gait, gaining distance and, perhaps, confidence with every step. She could practically feel his warmth now; it was definitely a man, not an illusion. At last, after a minute or two, although her eyes were shut in feigned sleep, she knew he stood before her. She felt him hover over her, just like countless other men had done in times past. At the right moment, when he would remark on her beauty or else stoop to steal a kiss, she would pull off her youthful mask and lay bare her corpse-like face.

  The silence resumed, however, making her wonder if he really was hovering over her. Thus, betraying her usual custom, she opened her large brown eyes. There he stood, as she had guessed, right before her. Upon that initial glance, she noticed how his clothes differed from the last person who visited her forest; it was a mild surprise that lasted no more than an instant, but, even in that short moment, she did not let it show upon her face. This man was dressed in tweeds, his suit appearing somewhat worn with age. He was handsome, with a pair of childlike eyes that were profound in their depth; all of his features were clear-cut and were set into a smooth face that crowned a supple frame. Eunha was not moved by his beauty; no, not at all. Even so, she was taken by a vague feeling of kindredness between the two- a youthful exterior belied by an old interior.

  He was mildly shocked, pulling away in sudden surprise upon seeing her open her eyes. His mouth was slightly parted, a word of apology hanging on the tip of his tongue. His boyish eyes were trembling, as if sorry for being caught peeping at her sleeping form. Eunha did him no favor, either; her eyes were constantly roving over his slender frame.

  Following a nervous chuckle, he finally spoke, "Forgive me, miss. While on my short walk here, I observed these strange, almost sentient, shadows, as silly as that might sound. And my instincts pressed me to leave." He cleared his voice. "Not that I was afraid or anything. But I thought it best to leave anyways, and so I was on my way out when I noticed you. Seeing you rest so quietly against the tree, it occurred to me that..." He smiled a little and continued, "You might be a ghost. But, knowing better, I came, thinking you had lost your way in the woods here and had fallen asleep after much exhaustion."

  For the most part, the man spoke truthfully. Yet there was more to what he said. Part of him, when noticing Eunha reclined against the tree, had wondered whether or not he was staring at a corpse. That is why he walked very cautiously over to her, afraid if what he saw was a dead body.

  Eunha suppressed a smile, quite calmly answering, "Of course you will find shadows in the forest. The shadows that trees cast are often bizarre, I admit. And as for ghosts... I do not think I am."

  "You're completely right on all bases, miss," he laughed. "I'm silly, aren't I?"

  The witch was filled with glee inside, knowing she would have fun with her prey. She patted the ground at her side and scooted a little. She was certain he had fallen for her beauty, fallen deep enough to ignore otherwise telltale signs of danger, of strange things afoot.

  She asked for his name, to which he replied, "Sungyeol."

  "May I know yours?" Sungyeol was averting her gaze, which was intently fixed on him. He felt almost beside her, as though her eyes were peeling off each layer of clothing to behold what sort of man he was. This uncomfortable feeling persisted through the early moments of their talk, but he shrugged off the notion quite readily. Sungyeol often spent days locked inside his flat, absorbed in work, with little to no interaction with people. He was certain this was the reason for this awkwardness, and so the feeling of it lingered as the two talked, until it subsided into a simple, silly thought. And she seemed completely harmless, incapable of evil, like a pure white dove. Or so he thought.

  "Eunha," she said, her luminous eyes never moving from him.

  "Were you not afraid? Sleeping here alone in the forest?"

  The witch smiled subtly, in a way that suggested amusement but not outright derision.

  "I'll take that as a no," Sungyeol said with a smile of his own, reflecting on how he had perhaps yielded too quickly to think of Eunha as helpless or easily frightened.

  Eunha let her vision drift across the numerous branches that formed a canopy over the two. "The woods are a haven for the critters. There is no need to be afraid here."

  "You're right," he absently replied. "Nothing scary here," he added with a bit more thought.

  She observed the look on his face and felt the air of brooding emanate from him. "What do you mean?"

  Sungyeol was silent, gathering his thoughts before he finally answered, "Well... humans are more scary than monsters- ghosts, witches, and devils. I mean," he chuckled again. "It was men that created those monsters, after all."

  With an upraised brow, she asked, much intrigued, "You do not believe in those things?"

  "No, I believe in fantasy, alright. Perhaps more than I'd like to believe in this Earth, with all the news writing constantly about death and the slump the economy's in. You know, the usual."

  Sungyeol lacked faith in the supernatural, though he claimed he did not. Eunha knew very well. It did not take magic to know that, only a look into his dull eyes.

  "I see..."

  The two remained utterly still once more. Eunha was disappointed, to say the least. To think there would come a time when men would lose faith in the supernatural. What had the world come to?

  Is that why Agnes so desired to see The End of All? To know for herself how far man would stray from their one noble virtue? There was a time when gods were common among men, breathing the same air they did- loving and dying the same way they did. And now? There were no gods or monsters, fairies- or even devils.

  Eunha could tell this is what Sungyeol believed in: a world without wonder and miracles. A world without faith was the world Sungyeol lived in. Not superstition, which is rumor colored by fear, but the ability to see beyond the mundane and suffering- faith, a world all its own.

  "So why did you come to the forest?" the witch asked, already forming an idea as to why. At the same time, she wondered to herself why she should even care. He was to be a mere toy, after all- something to bring her amusement in the midst of her repetitive days.

  "Well," Sungyeol began; then he stopped. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Only air came out, gusty breaths like those exhaled in disappointment. He cupped his chin in his hand and really got to thinking.

  Eunha, meanwhile, almost burst into laughter. Could there be such a man uncertain as to his purposes? With zero resolve?

  "Well what?" she asked, her laughter somewhat breaking through.

  With a little jerk, he turned to see her quite obviously restraining a smile. It was impossible to feel any anger at such a splendid picture of sublimity. Ever-so-subtle creases forming around , a slight crinkling of so petite a nose, a hint of blush touching her gathering cheeks, and twinkling, shimmering stars for eyes: she was cherubic in her smile. It was impossible to not smile back.

  "Well," he said with a small chuckle. "I'm not quite sure anymore."

  With a sigh, Eunha's features softened again, no longer tense in suppressing her amusement. "I will tell you why. You were drawn by its glamour. Magic drew you here."

  "Ah," Sungyeol answered with a nod of approval. "You're right. That's exactly why. I needed a place to breathe- to be away from all the stifling rumors of war abroad and worsening news of the depression we're in."

  "You have grown tired, have you not? Of the world..." A plan was forming inside her mischievous mind. He was quickly becoming her favorite visitor, and she wanted him around for awhile longer- an eternity even.

  "Yes, yes." Sungyeol had been slowly entranced by her. It was not a spell. At first, it was because of her undeniable beauty, but now it was mostly because of her words. She seemed to perfectly understand him, like a friend who always knew what to say at exactly the right time. It was a different type of magic: a sudden congenial charm.

  "Why are you here?" he asked, choosing to no longer avoid her stare. His vision was then lost in the glorious brown of her iris; they mirrored perfectly the sacrosanct earth of the forest, streaked here and there by a line of gold, like sunbeams cast across the floor of the woods. 

  Eunha expected the question. Her answer was ready: "I live here, together with my mother." The last words were spoken with a drawl, perhaps unintentionally so.

  The look in Sungyeol's eyes said he was puzzled, even when he chose not to speak a word. To have the local government give permission to build a house on protected property (forests and parks being deemed off-limits by those with political power) was unheard of. Sungyeol had seen shantytowns, but this was different. Eunha and her mother were criminals, then. He thought no less of them. If anything, he admired their boldness in opposing the current administration.

  As Sungyeol indulged in his quaint, if not petty, thoughts of the government receiving a little of what they deserved by not being obeyed by the mother and daughter, a picture flashed upon him. He imagined the two having dinner at the table, with a warm fire keeping the cold at bay, while they talked of whatever came to mind. It was beautiful. A void inside his heart pricked him, and a sense of envy stirred. For Sungyeol strove to share his heart with people, but they never listened, so he bottled his thoughts inside. He wished, if possible, to partake of that bond, even if at a distance as a mere friend. Yes, that sounded like a nice plan to him.

  But what now? Sungyeol was pestered by the question. The still moments between the two dragged on, with tension growing; it was as if an itch begged to be scratched. The problem was that Sungyeol had no idea what to say. He felt that things had changed between them.

  In the midst of his wanting to befriend her, he grew nervous. It was not that he was afraid of leaving a bad impression; it was that his mind had gone completely blank. There was a lack of topics to discuss, no quote to share- just a white vortex inside his head.

  So, after much fretting, he simply asked, "Do you want to be friends?" and immediately regretted phrasing the question in such a childish way, turning his face aside to look at the ground while fostering a sense of eager expectation.

  Eunha was baffled, though she was of the opinion that, maybe, it was only natural that this eccentric man should ask such a question above all others. He intrigued her more. Her whims were tossed about in a playful mood. She was like a cat that plays with its rodent meal.

  "Yes, Sungyeol. I would love to be your friend."

  He blew a sigh of relief, seemingly deflating with the gusty breath until he slouched against the tree. Sungyeol's eyes were no longer dull. They flashed like amber jewels as they caught the sunlight and were like a boy's at the beginning of December. The relief he showed as she accepted his friendship was completely genuine. He had become a child, a boy taking the form of a man in his late twenties. Without her noticing, the notion brought a smile to Eunha's winsome face. 

  It was irony. She was old, pretending to be young, and he was a boy in spirit, trapped inside the confines of a bleak adult world.

   For a brief second, she almost regretted not being who he must have thought she was (a young and lovely girl). But she comforted herself, knowing he would react just as those other men did at the time she tore away her guise. All she needed to trap his soul in the woods was to have him comment on her beauty, seek a kiss, or be terrified of her true corpse-like face; that would be the end of her game.  

​​​​​