Through the Fairy Ring

Chapter I.

Grace stood in the doorway, a hand gripped firmly onto her luggage. The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and wild lavender that grew unchecked in the garden. The house looked smaller now, swallowed by the creeping ivy that twisted along the brick walls. It had been years since she had last visited, ever since she moved to the city to be a detective. Now, it felt like the cottage had shrunk into itself, like an old woman that had grown frail in her absence. Like Grandma Irene.

She winced at the thought of her dear old grandmother passing away alone in this house, surrounded by trees and wildflowers that were her only company. She didn't mean to let the stack of letters that her grandmother wrote painstakingly despite her worsening arthritis pile up the way that it did. Her mind had simply been too occupied by the numerous case files that were dropped off on her desk every morning, the constant stream of work that awaited her every time she stepped into the precinct.

But by the time she noticed the letters had stopped coming, it was too late.

Grace ran a hand through her disheveled hair, exhaling a breath that felt like it had been lodged in her chest for days. "Home," she muttered to no one in particular, the word foreign on her tongue. For a moment, the weight of her return threatened to crush her. But this wasn't really a return, was it? It was an exile.

After the incident at the precinct — after the screaming, the broken glass, the sudden, terrifying collapse — Grace had been gently "relieved" of her duties. Her captain's words still echoed in her mind, a careful mix of concern and authority. "It's for your own good, Grace. Take all the time you need." As if time could fix the cracks that had spiderwebbed across her psyche.

She closed the door behind her and let the silence of the cottage settle around her. It was unnervingly still here, a far cry from the sirens and constant hum of the city. Her therapist had insisted that the countryside would do her good, that the tranquility of nature would bring her back to herself. "Walk in the forest," she had said. "Reconnect with the earth, with the rhythm of life around you."

Grace wasn't sure if she believed in any of that anymore. Maybe once she had — back when the world made sense. Now, everything felt distant, blurred at the edges like a dream that lingered too long after waking. Still, the forest beckoned. Her mind drifted to the path behind the cottage, leading into the shadowy woods. She felt a pull, a quiet urge to walk among the trees, if only to escape the suffocating weight of the cottage and its memories.

Shaking her head in a feeble attempt to brush off her thoughts before they swirled out of control, she lugged her luggage to the bedroom. The dusty wooden floorboards creaked beneath her feet as if in protest, shattering the silence that shrouded the house. The bedroom was exactly how it was the last time she was here as if it was frozen in time, and she was unsure if that brought her relief or more grief.

Grace sat on the edge of the creaky bed, the faint scent of mothballs and old wood clinging to the air. Her childhood bedroom was a time capsule, frozen in the soft hues of rosy wallpaper and faded posters curling at the edges. She unzipped her suitcase with little enthusiasm, mechanically folding sweaters into the closet that still held remnants of her past — yellowed postcards, an old cassette tape, a broken necklace she hadn't thought about in years.

Her fingers brushed against the smooth wood of the nightstand as she reached for the last few items. There, nestled between a stack of forgotten books and a dusty lamp, sat her old music box. She paused, staring at it for a long moment. It was smaller than she remembered, a delicate thing with faded gold trim and a worn ballerina figure trapped under a glass dome.

She hesitated, then lifted it into her hands, the weight of it pulling her back to simpler days. She wound the key carefully, a part of her half-expecting it to jam after so many years of neglect. But to her surprise, the familiar tinkling melody began to play — a soft, haunting tune that filled the room with the ghost of her childhood.

The ballerina spun lazily inside the dome, her once-pink tutu now dull and yellowed with age. Grace's gaze drifted, the music lulling her into a gentle reverie. She turned toward the window, staring out at the woods beyond. The trees swayed with the evening breeze, their leaves whispering secrets she could almost hear.

She used to spend hours there as a child, weaving between the trees, pretending they were guardians of some hidden kingdom. Back then, her grandmother would call her back before sunset, warning her of the dangers of wandering too far after dark. Grace had always laughed it off. The forest was just trees, she'd thought. Nothing more.

But now, something about it felt different. Older. Deeper. The melody of the music box faded into the background as her eyes lingered on the edge of the woods, where the shadows began to stretch long and thick.

A flicker of longing tugged at her. Maybe her therapist was right. Maybe a walk in the forest was what she needed — something to shake off the heaviness that clung to her since her collapse. Her heart beat a little faster at the thought, though she couldn't say why.

She placed the music box back on the nightstand, the last notes of the song trailing into silence. Rising from the bed, Grace walked to the window and gazed out into the forest, the path barely visible in the fading light of the setting sun. The trees beckoned, their leaves swaying in a rhythm that matched her pulse.

Without thinking, she grabbed her jacket and headed for the door.