The June sun lingered high in the sky, spilling golden light over the dark wooden roofs of Triberg. A silver car rolled slowly along the cobblestone road, its wheels clicking in a deep, steady rhythm. On either side, clusters of red geraniums spilled from attic windows, swaying gently in the breeze. In the distance, the Triberg Waterfalls cascaded over moss-covered steps, murmuring like the echoes of the past.
The road from school to home was always like a perfectly crafted mosaic of nature and human touch. At first, the car passed through the town center, where cuckoo clock shops displayed intricate wooden mechanisms, each hiding a tiny bird behind its door. Leaving town, the road curved around the hillside, past a field of lush green barley rippling in the wind. Further on, rows of lavender stretched out in soft purple, their gentle fragrance drifting through the window, wrapping around like a wordless song. Before reaching home, the road followed the edge of the Black Forest—rows of solemn, dark green fir and spruce trees, heavy with the scent of resin and cool shade.
Graciana sat in the passenger seat, her cheek resting against the window, looking both sweet and pensive. Her reddish-brown hair glowed like amber honey in the sun; her brown eyes held a deep, reddish glint—too contemplative for a twelve-year-old. She didn't speak much, only watched as the scenery slipped away, imagining the barley bending to talk to the lavender, and the Black Forest keeping to itself secrets only she could hear.
Behind the wheel, Elisabeth wore a cream linen dress, her dark blonde hair twisted into a neat bun. Her pale green eyes were gentle, but while driving, they never missed a curve in the road or a passing pedestrian. She spoke little on the way home, but now and then her hand rested lightly on her daughter's—an unspoken gesture: "I'm here."
Their house stood apart on a gentle slope: a two-story home of elegant, traditional style, with clean cream walls, blue wooden shutters, and a roof of reddish-brown tiles. The front yard was paved with pale gravel, dotted with white lily-of-the-valley blooms, their sweet cool fragrance mingling with the deep shade of an old fir tree whose branches spread like a green roof. In one corner, a marble fountain gurgled softly, its water song blending with the chirping of sparrows.
Inside, the living room opened wide beneath a low wooden ceiling, with a gray stone fireplace and shelves packed with fairy tales—some so old their spines had faded. A window looked out toward the forest, its sheer white curtains letting in the evening light. The adjoining kitchen was neat and bright, with a light oak dining table and a vase of lily-of-the-valley in the center.
As soon as they arrived, Elisabeth slipped off her jacket, hung it on the wooden peg, then took cold cuts, cheese, rye bread, and tomatoes from the fridge. Graciana helped set the table—placing forks and knives on a blue-and-white checkered cloth, pouring apple juice into two thick glasses. The warm kitchen light spread across the room, glinting on the table like a thin glaze of honey.
Dinner was quiet. Elisabeth asked her daughter about school, and Graciana told her she had drawn a cuckoo bird but, for some reason, had given it red eyes. Her mother smiled, saying sometimes the imagination takes us to places no one expects.
Afterward, the girl helped load the dishes into the dishwasher before heading upstairs. Her bedroom, at the end of the hall, was small and cozy, with white walls scented faintly of herbs and a window looking out toward the forest. A little wooden bed was dressed in sea-green sheets patterned with white daisies—like clouds drifting on a summer lake. On her bookshelf, fairy tales stood alongside schoolbooks, and on the wall hung a finely carved oak cuckoo clock—a birthday gift from her father.
She touched the clock gently, and memories returned. The last time Adrian had been home was three weeks ago, before leaving for Switzerland on a new research project. Standing in the doorway in a long coat, he had held out a postcard painted with a waterfall.
"You know," he had said, "some stories only appear if you take the time to listen."
He had tousled her reddish-brown hair, then bent to hug her tightly. The faint cedarwood scent of his cologne still lingered in her mind as the door closed behind him.
That night, as always, Elisabeth sat by her bed to tell a story. Tonight's tale was about a family with three sons and an old mother, living at the edge of the forest. The eldest son went off to war and never returned. The second son, while gathering firewood in the forest, lost his way and was never seen again. The old mother, weeping endlessly for her children, cried her eyes blind, until only the third son remained—living quietly like a shadow at her side… Her voice slowed toward the end, as if there was something left unsaid.
Graciana closed her eyes. She thought she could hear the rustle of the forest outside, the murmur of the fountain—and then, three clear calls of a cuckoo bird, ringing in the night. Strangely, the clock on the wall was still silent, as if the sound had come from somewhere else entirely.
Summer, it seemed, had only just begun.
"Gracia… Graciana…"
Who… who was calling her?
The voice was not loud, but heavy with sorrow, echoing from some far-off place—both familiar and strange.
Graciana suddenly found herself standing on a narrow path into the forest. The ground was covered with dry leaves; each step crunched softly, echoing in an uncanny silence. Above, the sky was ash-gray, and a full, low moon poured a cold light that seemed to freeze her blood. A thin mist crept along the ground, curling around her ankles as if to hold her back.
At the end of the path, a small, weathered wooden hut appeared, its roof sagging as if about to collapse. From the crack in its door seeped a weak golden light, trembling against the darkness pressing in. She heard a soft sobbing—broken, uneven, heartbreakingly sad.
Pushing the heavy wooden door, its hinges groaning, Graciana saw an old woman with hair as white as snow, her clouded eyes like dew-frosted glass. She sat beside a dead fire, gray ash scattered at her feet. Her thin, trembling hands fumbled over two worn shirts, as if afraid they might vanish if she let go. The flicker of a candle on the table could not drive away the shadows in the room.
Suddenly, outside came the heavy tread of footsteps on the wooden porch. The door swung open—not one, but two men in dark cloaks stepped inside. Their faces were hidden in shadow, but Graciana felt their cold, piercing gaze on her. In an instant, as the old woman turned her head, they were gone—leaving only an icy emptiness and the whisper of wind through the door crack.
She stepped closer, meaning to ask something, but the old woman clutched her hand—dry, cold, smelling faintly of damp wood and smoke. Her voice rasped from deep within,
"Be careful when you walk into the forest…"
The moment the words dissolved into the air, the light in the hut went out. Darkness swallowed everything. The forest and the hut were gone; only the three calls of the cuckoo bird rang out, clear and cold, as if from a place beyond this world.
Graciana woke with a start. The room was silent, yet the chill of that old woman's hand still clung to her skin—leaving her unsure whether it had been a dream, or something else entirely.