Shadewood on the altar of a sunrise

The ghost had gone from one forest, emerged within another. He drifted unseen by many, creeping through the dark corners of the world until he came upon a spacious, gilded landscape—the antithesis of his true home.

Here, the trees did not choke one another out for space nor claw at the sky with empty boughs. Here, the earth was covered in a thick carpet of encroaching moss that layered across the bark of trees; the trees themselves being immense, ancient things. They boasted yellowing leaves that were still in good health, but in the coming weeks would become a part of the forest floor.

Layers of red and gold, imperious, precious. And here he drifted still; wraith-like and silent, keeping to the deep shadows where few would tread.