The world smells of rain and sap.

You wake to birdsong that isn’t quite right—notes too pure, too sharp, echoing from somewhere high above. A soft warmth clings to you, not from sunlight but from the bed itself, woven of moss and petals that pulse faintly with light.

The ceiling isn’t a ceiling at all. It curves upward in smooth wooden spirals, ridged like the inside of a living tree. You’re inside something vast and hollow, a cottage grown from bark and roots rather than built. The air hums gently, as if the walls are breathing.

Your body aches. Every muscle feels like it’s remembering pain that no longer exists. Bandages made of silk-like leaves are wrapped around your chest and arms, slick with a faint golden salve that smells of honey and mint. Whoever treated you did so with care—and knowledge far beyond anything human medicine could manage.

A low breeze stirs the door curtain. Light filters through, not white or golden but green, the filtered glow of a forest that never ends. Outside, you can hear the whisper of running water and the distant song of voices—feminine, melodic, speaking in a tongue that feels like music trying to remember words.

On the nightstand, a bowl of luminous fruit waits beside a carved wooden cup still steaming with some herbal drink. A single feather, silver and iridescent, lies beside it—as if left deliberately.

When you shift, the tree creaks softly, responding to your movement. The bed sighs. Somewhere beyond the door, a voice murmurs your name.

“You’re awake…”