We drove deep in the Schwarzwald, and the atmosphere in the car had changed. The tension of the "road trip" was gone, replaced by a quiet, vulnerable solidarity. We had been stripped bare, and we were still standing.
The forest began to change, too.
As we drove deeper, the "Grimm" elements became visual.
We passed a clearing where massive mushrooms, glowing with neon-blue bioluminescence, formed a perfect ring. In the center of the ring, the ghosts of dancers, faint, silvery outlines, were waltzing to music we couldn't hear.
"Fairy ring," Maelle murmured, pressing her face to the glass. "Don't step inside. Time moves differently there. One dance lasts a hundred years."
Further on, we saw a cottage.
It sat on a hill overlooking the road. It looked quaint, with a thatched roof and smok
