is hardly enough to keep the shadows in the corners of the cabin where they belong. my grandfather, old jack, sits, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. it’s a night for stories. for dreams of the past. he stirs.
the forest was thicker. you could walk for days, weeks, without seeing its end. the trees were older and darker. you stayed on the path or you lost your way. and no one would search for you. there were tales of wild beasts, evil spirits and the heads of the dead. it rained. not like now, but nearly all the time. even on those strange, dry days the mist 