The door opens to a world pale with fog. One must be careful in the fog. It is far too easy to step through and find oneself in foreign lands. An autumn morning, like this one, is thin.

She walks into the mist, the door closing softly behind.

There is a journey to be had today. Early morning is fairy time, and she is at home in it. A tiny smile graces her lips as she breathes in the wet air. She is small, yes. Still, it is not easy to mistake her for a child. She radiates with power, and despite her shadows, she seems to glow. Dark and light, somehow together. Like the fog itself.

The path edges a field. Vague black shapes dot it; crows hunting for breakfast. Their sentinels watch carefully as she passes, wary of anyone who might disturb the flock. She continues with a nod of deference.

Leaves are heavy, not with rainwater, but with the combined dew of dawn and vapor. She passes away from the field, and under their canopy. There is a heavy quiet, that is only enhanced by the occasional dripping of trees. Reaching up, she taps a finger on the underside of a flame colored leaf. A shower of droplets falls down on her.

In this misty morning, things that were once invisible may appear. Where once a spider thread would have tickled faces, instead there is a long white string, stark against the greenery. She ducks underneath strands of dew-covered gossamer with a silent giggle. She pauses briefly at a rose bush, admiring the intricate web tucked between stems and thorns. Again, at a shrub, where the caretaker has abandoned it's work, and the center strands of a careful trap are fading away, or perhaps never finished.

A single rose, barely more than a bud, catches her attention. The pale white petals somehow hold a blush of pink, a promise of yellow, and waft a scent that will only get sweeter in time. Plucking it carefully, she returns to the door. Only that one small souvenir returns with her.

Back to what is 'real.'