the overgrown path in the wood that stood just outside your house was filled with long forgotten stories and people and tales of some soft sort of amazement and delusions. the mosses grew over rooted skeletons and the grasses grew through the creeks and cracks of the old castle and legends of nights and grandeur and knights and grander things. ferns took over the once horse-trodden paths and marketplaces where peasants and merchants and farmers grew together into an integrated society of intrigue and fantasy. the trees sprung from the battlefronts and places of misplaced worship and logic. the wood was a magic place of fiction and fact and it was just outside your doorstep and you were so scared to see the things that were and weren't there, that were just a few feet under the ground, under the surface, begging to be uprooted and to be seen again, but you never saw them. not even once.
