02/17/2026
So beautiful ❤️
They say the veil between seasons thins around February 17th, that peculiar hinge in the month when winter’s patience wears thin and spring still refuses to put on her shoes. In the Hidden World Between the Trees, it is known as The Day of Restless Waiting.
On that day, a young girl named Eira felt the weight of the stillness pressing on her bones. The world was gray, the ponds untrustworthy, the light neither long nor short. Everything held its breath.
Eira, tired of waiting for color to return, crept into the Weaver’s Hut—the place where every sunrise, moon phase, and seasonal turning was spun into delicate strands. She found a single shimmering thread labeled Tomorrow and, thinking it harmless, tucked it into her pocket. Just a peek ahead, she told herself.
But the forest knew immediately.
Snowflakes began to fall upward, rising like startled birds. Shadows slipped from the feet of trees and wandered off in search of their owners. The wind lost its rhythm. Even the old stones hummed with unease.
Eira stumbled through the disarray, thread glowing hot against her chest. She finally found the Weaver—ancient, patient, draped in the colors of every hour that ever existed.
“You cannot skip the in-between,” the Weaver said gently. “Even the forest needs the quiet days, the almost-days, the days that seem to go nowhere. Without them, nothing can arrive fully.”
Eira returned the thread. And the world exhaled—snow settling, shadows curling back, wind finding its feet again. The forest softened, not into spring yet, but into readiness.
Since then, February 17th is remembered as the day the future tugged too hard—and the forest reminded us that even longing must root itself in the present.
