The Bramble Collection

They called her the wanderer — not because she was lost, but because she never stayed still for long. Her cottage sat at the edge of the woods, tucked between ash and oak, where fog clung low in the mornings and acorns fell like soft bells in the evening. Her name was Aveline, though most had forgotten it. That suited her just fine.

Each day, she stepped out into the gold-dappled quiet, her satchel swinging with every stride. She moved gently through the trees, collecting what the forest offered — Enchanted Acorns tucked into mossy hollows, late-autumn herbs growing at the edges of paths, mushrooms peeking up in Tanglewood, where few others dared to tread. She gathered food, yes, but also color, texture, inspiration.

In the cooler hours of the day, smoke curled from the chimney of her Cottage Hearth. Inside, skeins hung like garlands — Brambleberry, Russetfield, Blackthorn, and Bluehour, all dyed by her own hand. Her fingers worked constantly: needles clicking beside the window as the Harvest Fog rolled in, threads trailing from her embroidery hoop under lamplight.

She crocheted blankets for the geese in the first frost, knitted fingerless gloves for children who passed by her path. She stitched tiny ferns and moons into her aprons, a soft rebellion against the fading light. In the evenings, when the wind rose, she wrapped herself in shawls the color of Glimmerfell and sat with her back to the Oaken door, hands still busy, heart still quiet.

The forest was no longer wild to her. She knew it like a mother knows her child. Every root, every shift in the wind, every gathering place. There was Midnight Orchard, where the trees grew close and fruit still clung to the branches well into November. There was Pumpkin Moonrise, the field that blazed orange just before the frost came, and Cloakfern, the hidden grove where lavender-grey mists kissed the tips of green.

Some said she wove stories into her yarn, that the colors changed slightly depending on the mood of the day. Others said she embroidered her memories onto linen so they wouldn’t escape her. But Aveline never said much. She simply worked, wandered, watched the seasons turn.

And as the days shortened and the Hearthstone warmed, her threads pulled a new rhythm into being — a quiet kind of magic, not made of spells, but of stitches.

A life woven, not conjured.

A legacy made, not named.

Just Aveline — the wanderer in the woods.