It had just passed four when she paused next to the outskirts of the woods. The golden air of the short days wrapped around the bases of the trees, their jutting branches creating a web of cool shadows on the powdered floor. Beckoning brushes leaned towards her with their thin fingers digging out from beneath. Mellow warmth turned crimson then blue. Breaking her solemn gaze from the shriveled weeds, she raised her head to find herself in a forest she remembered, more the one she missed. 
Dense fog heavily hangs over her as spring dew lays across the mosses and disintegrating leaves. She hastily turns and finds herself alone on a muddied path that ends at and leads into the grey wall of fog. It is a wonder why she is even here, how she got here, and what is left when she leaves. Her boots are heavy, as if they are weighed down by iron, as she steps towards the mist that eventually envelops her form. In the fog where she always finds herself, there is, for one moment, something to it. It is deserted but there are enough senses in time for it to be missed.