Delia found herself in the forest. The trees were covered in moss, which made her smile. She had always loved moss, whether it was on graves in cemeteries or forest trees, there was something pure about it. She had always believed it made nature more enigmatic, more inviting. Back home, the trees looked unnatural, transplanted to create an ambiance that fostered dishonest dispositions and plastic people. What surrounded her now was nature at its core; the trees had always lived and died here, born and reborn into and from themselves. Slivers of cloud-covered sunlight filtered through the openings between the trees, and she could hear the birds chirping. The day was a cold and gloomy one, and the fog passed through the forest, close to the ground. She shuddered. 

Delia heard a branch fall, which drew...

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