The air shifts as you wander, leaves that are neither fully wet nor fully crisp crunch softly underfoot, carrying you through groves where cedar, oak, and birch stand in quiet kinship. Morning fog drifts across velvet moss, softening the world into a hushed dream. Scents of spice and resin curl upward, mingling with the sweetness of harvest. Each breath is a doorway and a reminder that this season is not just to be lived, but to be imagined. This is autumn as a fairytale: a place where fragrance becomes folklore and every flicker of flame turns another page.