At the edge of the woods, the boy found something strange: a painting propped on its easel, the frame as rich as any he’d seen, yet the brushes sat in the grass as if the artist had vanished mid-stroke. The canvas showed a grove of trees he knew well, but captured with a beauty that felt alive, as though the forest itself had painted its own portrait. Above, a raven tilted its head and spoke in a rasping voice: “Magic becomes art.” The boy leaned closer, half expecting the trees in the picture to sway, or the pumpkins to roll from frame to earth. Perhaps they already had.
