Collection: The Faun's Harvest

At the turning of the year, when fields lie quiet and evenings draw close, the faun takes his place at the forest’s edge for harvest. Not of grain and fruit, but of smaller, secret things. The apples fall, the corn withers, and the mushrooms rise in rings where mortals may wander: these belong to men and their tables, and the faun has no hunger for them. His harvest is of another kind. A feather caught in the wind, a shadow fallen across stone, a drop of rain that clings too long. Such things slip through human hands, yet in his keeping they are gathered and remembered, lest the world forget its secrets when winter comes.