13/04/2026
Once upon a quiet morning, tucked away at the edge of a whispering forest, stood a small black cottage with a roof that looked like it had been gently woven by nature itself. The thatched curves hugged the house like a warm blanket, as if protecting the stories hidden within its walls.
A narrow wooden bridge stretched across a calm pond, inviting anyone curious enough to step closer. The water mirrored everything—the cottage, the flowers, even the drifting clouds—like it was guarding secrets of another world beneath its surface.
Every window of the house had life blooming around it. Bright red and pink flowers spilled over their edges, as if the cottage itself couldn’t contain its happiness. The soft creak of the door, painted a warm golden shade, hinted that someone—or something—lived inside.
Villagers often spoke of this place in hushed voices. They said that at dusk, when the sky turned lavender and gold, a gentle light flickered through the windows. Some believed it was an old artist who never left, painting the changing seasons. Others whispered about a quiet soul who found peace here after wandering the world.
But those who dared to cross the bridge and stand at the doorstep felt something different—not fear, not mystery, but a strange comfort. Like the house knew them. Like it had been waiting.
And maybe… it was.
