When the world forgets you, the forest remembers. And she finds you before it’s too late.
The wind whispered through the trees outside, carrying the scent of pine and secrets long forgotten.
No one knew her real name. Legends drifted through the nearby towns: tales of a woman who appeared only to the lost, those who wandered too far into the forgotten forest. Those who have met her never forget the eyes behind the mask, sharp, steady, and full of knowing. To some, she’s a myth. To others, a guardian angel with claws.
They call her the Catwoman.
Long ago, before she became legend, she was simply a woman, but the forest called to her, as it does to all who carry old wounds. She disappeared into the wilds and was changed. Not lost but found. The cabin became her refuge, then her mission. Now, it’s a sanctuary for the broken, the frightened, the lost.
When storms come and the woods turn cruel, when hikers vanish or hearts collapse under the weight of sorrow, she appears. Sometimes a flicker in the trees. Sometimes a blur of movement in the fog. And always, when needed, she is there.
Those who’ve been saved speak of waking on the warm rug by the fire, bandaged and safe, her silhouette watching from the shadows like a silent guardian. Others say they heard her voice, low, calm, unmistakably human, guiding them through the fog when all seemed lost.
One man, a seasoned hiker, spoke of slipping on wet rock and tumbling down a ravine, his leg shattered, his will slipping fast with the cold. Just before he passed out, he saw her: a blur of black, golden hair glowing faintly in the moonlight. When he came to, he was in the cabin, his leg splinted, the scent of pine and firewood in the air.
A teenager once told of being circled by wolves, the pack driven mad by winter hunger. He climbed a tree, heart pounding, eyes wide in terror. Then a piercing sound echoed through the woods, not quite a growl, not quite human, and the wolves fled as if something older and wilder had entered their realm. He never saw her clearly, only a flash of her mask among the trees and the faintest whisper: “You’re safe now.”
Another woman claimed she had gone into the woods with no intention of returning, her life too heavy, her spirit too tired. But the forest didn’t take her. Instead, she awoke wrapped in a warm blanket, a mug of something herbal steaming beside her. The Cat had left no trace, except for a single note on the table: “Not all who are lost are meant to stay that way.”
No two stories are quite the same, and yet they all share a common thread, rescue without reason, healing without cost, and the unshakable feeling that they were never alone, even in the deepest part of the forest.
She asks no thanks, no name, no return. Her only reward is the moment a life turns back toward the light.
The woods hold their breath. The window glows with twilight as the Cat waits for the next soul who will need her.
Because even in silence, the forest speaks.
And she always hears it first.
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