Field Notes Archive – Entry #001, The Coveborne Collection There’s something about the silence here that makes you feel watched—but not in a fearful way. It’s as if the woods themselves are holding their breath, waiting to see what you will do next. I arrived at the glade before sunrise, just as the mist was deciding whether to lift. The air was saturated with dew and the soft, heady perfume of night-blooming thistle. My boots sank slightly into the moss with each step, muffling the sound of my arrival—an unspoken invitation to tread softly, to pay attention. The wildflowers here don’t grow in rows. They twist and curl, reach and tangle, blooming in riotous patterns that defy logic. I tucked a few into the pocket of my satchel: lavender bells, moonstem, and something with petals like pressed parchment. When I opened the pouch again later that evening, the blooms were gone. Only the scent remained—wild mint and petrichor—and the faint glow that now hums along the seam of my wristlet. Even the wind behaves strangely here. It doesn’t just rustle leaves—it carries thoughts. You’ll be certain you’re alone, and then a sudden breeze delivers a laugh you didn’t laugh, or a lullaby no one taught you. More than once, I caught myself whispering back. Not because I expected a response, but because it felt rude not to. And that tote? The one I left near the creek bed when I dozed off beside a sun-dappled oak? It came back humming. I don’t know how. I’ve stopped asking questions. Some magic doesn’t need naming. Some places don’t need maps. Whisperwild is one of them. Collected by: The Archivist of Mosslight Glade, initials indistinct. In this set: A 20oz enchanted tumbler, printed with celestial blooms and starlit thistle. A canvas tote, moss-soft and double-sided. A notebook for the whispers, and a handful of other essentials for wandering hearts and quiet rebels.