It was already spring. The snow had completely melted, and the forest was a fresh, vibrant green. The stream flowed just as streams always do. The birds announced the arrival of warmth and light, splashing in the water just as they always had. But this was the first year in the forest without people.

Almost half a century ago, Leesha had allowed them into her forest. The decision hadn't been easy, for it wasn't just one potentially dangerous human, but several. For some reason, people had come to her forest and begun praying for salvation. It was then, for the first time, that she had extended a helping hand to humans. She didn't know why she had agreed. Perhaps it was the woman with her large belly and sunken cheeks, or the little boy clutching his father's dirty pant leg.

After that, their family settled here. They honored her, called her a goddess though she never told them who she was, brought her extra food, and never asked for more than they needed. It was reminiscent of the family of red foxes that had lived in this very forest for millennia.

She didn't need offerings, but she accepted them. She didn't need prayers, but she listened to them. Humans try to make a God out of everything, she thought, finding a wooden statuette of herself. They were no different from the ducks living on the river, from the deer passing by the tree trunks.

Then the boy, who once clutched his father's pant leg, became a man himself. He buried his father, then his mother, and saw his sister off on a journey beyond the forest's edge. He married and had children. Now, the forest was filled not only with the babbling brook, the singing birds, and the laughing foxes, but also with the laughter of children. Leesha felt that this had become a part of the forest - a new, but equally important part of the circle of life.

But it wasn't as simple as it was for the geese. Humans needed more than just food and a roof over their heads. The man's wife left him after many arguments on summer nights, taking the children with her.

The man lived a long time after that, which surprised Leesha, but eventually, like all living things, he died. He left behind a wooden house filled with painted pictures and handmade wooden toys. It was regrettable.

He died in December, and you arrived in April. You walked along the well-trodden paths, following the signs laid out by your ancestors. There was determination in your step, and at your heel was a dog that growled the moment it sensed Leesha. Leesha was an animal at her core and instinctively understood who stood before her. The man and his family had not been like you.

You've been living in the house for almost a week and a half now. Leesha was genuinely interested in the new owner of the house, this descendant of those she had sworn to protect. You could have become an equal part of the circle of life, or its destroyer. But it was Tata, the dog with one upright ear, who became the destroyer of peace, guarding you and a five-kilometer radius around the house as if her life depended on it.

This evening, Leesha dared to come closer. She slipped through a hole in the fence that the old man, in his declining years, had never fixed. The apple tree, planted by the first people, was blooming with white, innocent flowers. Its branches spread over half the garden and even touched the glass of the window facing the yard. She bent down, but her antlers still got caught in the flowering apple tree. She jerked her head; a branch snapped against the dirty glass, causing movement inside the house. Then she freed herself; the branch cracked and broke. Her antler hit the windowpane, leaving a crack. She peered inside through the dust on the glass; it was quiet and dark. She walked along the wall and pulled the broken branch from her antlers. Beautiful white flowers that would never bear fruit.

Then she turned the corner of the house and heard a click. Her eyes met yours as you held your great-grandfather's rifle, which was clearly not in the best condition. Leesha's blue eyes glowed in the dark as she stood there, holding the absurdly beautiful branch. She couldn't find the words to say, so she knelt on one knee and offered you the apple branch.