In the forest where mushrooms grow, you leave something behind each day.
You hear a rustling in the woods, and you know you aren’t supposed to go there, but you steal away at dusk and give the forest what it wants. Or at least, what you think it wants. A gift, or an offering. To help something, to appease something. You aren’t sure which it is, but you are afraid everything might turn grey if you stop. You’re afraid it might come knocking at your door, demanding, if you don’t visit it first.
You return home as quickly and quietly as possible. Every fall since you can remember, your town isolates itself. No one leaves their home. Everyone has spent the months leading up to the season preparing, stockpiling food and supplies, to make sure they won’t have to leave for anything. Even on good days, there is an undercurrent of fear and unease, and everything is tinted grey.