Lisa’s pov
The flickering wax candle on my worktable cast long, dancing shadows across the wooden walls of my cottage.
The scent of crushed chamomile, dried feverfew, and sweet lavender filled the warm air of the small kitchen. I sat on my wooden stool, my old, aching fingers carefully separating the dry medicinal leaves from their stems, dropping them into neat glass jars for the winter supply.
Outside, the storm was raging through the outer borders of Twilight. Rain lashed against the heavy shutters, and the autumn wind howled through the high pine canopy.
Then, without warning, the woods went completely dead silent.
The wind was still blowing, but the natural forest sounds—the rustle of nocturnal creatures, the hoot of the barn owl in the eaves, the low murmur of the tree frogs nea
