Fanny was a child of quiet wonders, the kind of girl who could spot a single silver spider-thread in a field of green.

She lived in a house where the garden ended and the great, misty woods began, an edge-place where the air always smelled of damp earth and pine-sap.

One morning, while the fog still clung to the grass like a soft white blanket, Fanny stepped onto her back porch and found a small, huddled shape by the door.

It was a tiny person who looked just like a troll from her storybooks, with a coat of living emerald moss and skin the color of rain-washed granite. Fanny held her breath, realizing this silent traveler was far from the deep shadows of the forest where he belonged.