You are walking alone on a narrow trail through a dark forest. Night is falling; through the dense branches on either side you hear the grunts and screeches of unidentifiable creatures. You try to hurry, but the mud and dead leaves are slippery underfoot. Coming around a bend, you suddenly emerge into a clearing. In the middle of the clearing stands a decrepit stone cottage. Clumps of moss grow on its roof. Under its eaves, bundles of grayish herbs are tied with string and hung to dry. The air is still. A plume of smoke rises from the cottage’s stone chimney. You knock on the rustic wooden door and an old woman answers. In the dying light you can make out the faded kerchief on her head, the mole on her cheek, the long white hairs on her chin. She holds a corn broom in one hand. She beckons you inside. The one-room cottage smells of damp earth. There is only one table, with one roughly made wooden chair. Using wordless gestures, the old woman directs you to sit, and inquires whether you are hungry. You nod. She reaches into the pocket of her apron and lifts out two brown eggs. You order your eggs: *
