The world shifted on its axis the day I met the dwarf. I was only four, my mother a midwife, and the air around the stranger’s house thick with the scent of pine and anticipation. Bored, I wandered outside, drawn by a soft, ethereal glow.

There it was: a tiny castle, like something from a storybook, nestled among the roots of an ancient tree. It shimmered, adorned with miniature flags, and I giggled, thinking of the new baby who would surely play with it. A small man with a pointy red hat emerged, a dwarf straight out of a cartoon.

"It's a fiesta! Do you want to come inside?" he asked, his voice a jovial rumble. I declined, too big for such a tiny dwelling, I reasoned. But then, he offered a black candy, promising it would make me small enough. Just as I reached for it, a sharp, urgent voice sliced through the air.

"Hey, little girl! What are you doing there? Come inside the house now! Your mother is waiting for you!"

It was the old woman from the house, her face a web of wrinkles, her gaze piercing. I looked back at the dwarf, but he was gone. The castle, too, had vanished, replaced by a humble anthill. The magic was gone, or so I thought. I didn’t understand the worried looks, the hushed whispers, or the way my mother clutched my hand tighter as we left that night. I only knew that I’d waved goodbye to the dwarf, and countless other unseen faces, as we walked home through the darkening woods.