Once it finds you, it never really lets you go.
It’s always winter, there, the trees’ skeletal branches reaching out to touch you. You wonder what would happen if they did.
The woods fills the dark space when you close your eyes. When you’re sitting in your chair, curled up with your cup of tea, you see it in the thin light reflecting off the liquid surface. Sometimes when you look in the mirror, the glass fogs. You think you can see the trees stretching out behind you, a never-ending labyrinth wreathed in mist.
It follows you everywhere. Someone taps you on the shoulder, but when you turn there is no one there. Someone calls your name, but it was only a fat crow, watching you with beady eyes. You stop to buy a bouquet of roses. When you bury your nose in their petals, you smell wet leaf litter.
The woods have claimed you for their own, and they mean to have you. You will go to them, one day.
Or they will take you.