Zosia's village lay at the edge of an old quiet wilderness. Beyond the river stood a sacred grove and a large, hollow oak tree. Grandfather used to say that the Forest listens when children speak with curiosity. Before going to sleep, he warned: "Don't whistle in the forest, because the Forest answers." Zosia listened, but curiosity tickled her like a feather under her heart. One morning she found a wooden knocker under the chapel with a sign carved into it. The mark looked like a sun with short, curved rays. When she moved it, the echo tapped once and then again. The echo led down a path that twisted between birch trees and quiet water. "It's just a forest," she whispered, though her hair stood up on end. Footprints lay on the moss, as if someone had walked with upturned feet. Each print pointed backwards, yet ran ahead. Vicious fireflies flashed between the trunks, like little green moths. A garland of rushes lay by a large oak tree, still wet from the river. Zosia touched the grass, and the ground twitched as if someone was breathing on it. From inside the oak came a quiet knocking, four times, not her rhythm. "Zosia," called out a male whisper, soft as moss, yet foreign. The boughs swung open the width of the door, smelling of honey and storm. Somewhere higher up, a stork scrambled, but everything else fell silent all at once. A drop ran down the back of her neck, like rain, though it was not raining. The quill in her hand suddenly baked, and the sign began to glow. Zosia took a step as a hand in bark slid out of the shadows.