As wind whipped through the trees around her, the dead forest seemed to breathe again. The trees watched her, leaning into the breeze- interested but hesitant, afraid, submissive. Yellow birches, remorseful of their own existence, appeared to be crying their peeling bark; paper thin tears offering an apology. Pines with barren branches stripped of needles cowered in the shadows, embarrassed of their nakedness. As she tread noiselessly down the path, she could almost feel their emotions- which made her nervous, yet comforted. They were hopeful; their branches yearning, bowed and bent, the way the arms of a lost child reaches for home. She felt the stirring and murmuring of a thousand voices around her, but she must have imagined it, for when she whirled around, the wood was still; unmoving, save for the rustle of dry dead leaves. The air was heavy with fog, or maybe it was anticipation.

Her footsteps echoed on the dusty ground as she walked forward, unsure yet peaceful, for the path felt familiar, but it was beyond her to remember why. Only once did she stumble, tripping on an extended root and dislodging a small stone that skittered away behind her, ricocheting off of decaying tree trunks. The hollow sound seemed to echo forever, reminding her of how far she had come. She fell to the forest floor with a quiet gasp of shock, and the trees seemed to mirror her surprise and bitterness as she rose with bleeding palms and knees.

Her eyes were lifted as she stood, brushing pine needles from her hands. Thunder rolled softly, and dark, lackluster clouds dragged eastward, guiding her view to the rising sun that barely glinted over the horizon. The fog, not yet cleared by the promising warmth of morning blurred her vision.

More determined now, her weary legs brought her closer and closer to the end of the forest path. She could see clearly now the door. The forest around her shivered, trembling with the desire for light, for spring. Wake us up, they seemed to plead, as if they had been dreaming of new life for centuries. As if she could give it to them.
In her trembling hand, palms clammy with fear, she gripped the dirty skeleton key, its bronze luster dulled with age.

The key turned in the lock.