In another corner, there was a cold fireplace. Alongside it sat a big copper bucket full of logs, and another smaller one with kindling.

And there were candles on every flat surface. One, on the floor, had melted into a puddle, its wick burned away.

I was amazed that it hadn’t burned the whole place to the ground.

But I knew that if I were a flame I would rather fizzle out than ruin a place like this one.

For besides the ordinary, workaday business of clothes and boots and such, the little cabin was filled with other things as well.

On one wall: shelves of books in all colors and sizes, like the keys of a new instrument I wanted badly to play.

Hanging from the roof: dozens of faded bouquets dangling like an upside-down garden.

And there was a workbench and a back wall hung all over with tools that my father would have cried to see. Beautiful tools of all kinds, as if someone had made wonderful things here.

And . . . wait, there, just on the windowsill by the door, there was something wonderful. A tiny fawn, carved from red wood, its hooves more delicate than petals. And a mouse with his tail hanging down over the edge. And a tiny squirrel, its paws tucked under its chin, watching me as I edged farther into the room.

And that was when I realized the rumpled bed in the shadows along the back wall wasn’t empty, as I’d thought.

I took a slow step forward, peering into the shadows, and saw that an old woman lay there, her face so pale it melted into the pillow and blended with the bedclothes, all of them faded and worn.

I looked again at the carvings on the windowsill, and for just a moment I thought this woman might have made such things for me, left them for me to find. But she was far too old to have the face I’d seen peering at me from the woods.

One of her hands, lying on the blanket, reminded me of the day I’d found a dead bird in the yard, its claws limp but curled up, like a baby’s hands will curl when he’s sleeping. Except there was nothing about babies here in this room. Nothing at all. Despite the books, despite the flowers overhead, despite the small wooden creatures and the handsome tools, everything here felt old and beaten and sad.

The air buzzed with flies.

The dog sat by the bed, waiting.

I put down my pack and walked slowly closer.

The woman who lay there was still, her eyes closed, but I could see that she was breathing.

A dead rabbit lay next to her head, flies drinking from its eyes.

I swallowed. Made myself breathe.