In the quiet village of Elmsworth, where fog clung to the hills like a forgotten memory, there were stories whispered only in the dark. The oldest of these spoke of the Wraithling—a creature that moved between the world of the living and the unseen. No one had seen it, but everyone knew its name. The Wraithling was said to be born from the dreams of those who had died alone, their thoughts tangled in the fabric of the earth. It would appear when the moon was full and the wind carried the scent of damp moss. Some claimed it had no face, just a shifting shape that flickered like smoke. Others swore it wore a tattered coat and left behind footprints that vanished by morning. Old Mrs. Hale, who lived at the edge of the forest, told tales of her childhood. She remembered how, as a girl, she used to hear a soft hum in the night, like a lullaby sung by the trees. One evening, she followed the sound through the thicket until she reached a clearing where the grass was unnaturally still. There, in the center, stood a figure—tall and thin, with hollow eyes that reflected the stars. It didn’t move, but she felt its gaze on her, cold and knowing. When she turned to run, the path behind her had changed, the trees now standing in unfamiliar places. She never spoke of what happened after that, only that she woke up in her bed the next morning, her hands covered in dirt and her heart pounding with something she could not name. Years passed, and the legend grew. Young people began to test the old tales, daring each other to wander into the woods under the full moon. Most returned with nothing but stories of strange lights and eerie silence. But one boy, Eli, did not return at all. His parents searched for him for days, calling out his name until their voices cracked. They found his backpack near the edge of the forest, filled with notebooks and a compass that spun wildly in his grip. No sign of him was ever found, but the villagers swore they saw his shadow moving through the trees long after he was gone. It wasn’t until the following year that a woman named Clara came to Elmsworth. She was an outsider, a writer seeking inspiration for her next book. She stayed in the old inn, where the walls creaked and the floorboards groaned like the bones of the house itself. She spent her evenings listening to the locals, asking questions about the Wraithling, about Eli, about the things that went unsaid. One night, she wandered into the forest, lantern in hand. The air was thick with the scent of pine and decay. As she walked, the trees seemed to lean in, their branches forming a tunnel of shadows. She heard the hum again, the same lullaby from Mrs. Hale’s story. It was soft, almost comforting, and it pulled her forward. At the center of the clearing, she saw it. Not the figure, but something else—a small, silver mirror, half-buried in the soil. Its surface was clouded, but as she knelt to touch it, the reflection shifted. In it, she saw herself, but also someone else. A boy, younger than her, with wide, frightened eyes. He was reaching out, trying to speak, but no sound came. Clara stumbled back, heart racing. The mirror shattered in her hands, and the forest fell silent. When she ran home, she found the town empty, the streets eerily still. No one answered her calls, and the windows of the inn were dark. She tried to leave, but the road had changed, the paths twisting into unfamiliar shapes. Days later, a group of villagers found her wandering the edge of the forest, disoriented and speaking in a language no one understood. She never explained what happened, only that she had seen the Wraithling and that it had shown her something she could not unsee. The village returned to its quiet ways, but the stories did not fade. Some say that if you listen closely on a still night, you can hear the hum of the Wraithling, a song that lingers between the waking and the dream. Others believe that the creature is not a monster, but a guardian of lost things, a keeper of memories that the world has forgotten. And in the heart of the forest, beneath the roots of ancient oaks, the silver mirror remains, waiting for the next curious soul to find it.