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ArtistA small gnome named Brammelwurz, with a long white beard, red pointed hat, green robe, red cloak, and brown boots, sits in a deep, mystical forest surrounded by old whispering trees. He is carving a wooden mask from a pale, glowing piece of wood. The trees around him are filled with ethereal echoes – ghostly shapes and words swirling faintly in the bark. The mood is melancholic and magical. The mask he holds is simple, with large eyes and an open mouth, radiating a quiet power. Background is filled with twilight mist and soft, greenish light filtering through leaves. No cartoon style – everything should feel natural, alive, and slightly haunting. Styl by Bastien Lecouffe-Deharme and Piotr Jabłoński.
It began with an empty space in his mind—a flickering hole in his memory. Brammelwurz knew something had been there: a name perhaps, a place, a face that had been close to him. But no matter how hard he searched his workshop, rummaged through jars, consulted old maps, or freed Sporeripple from the watch case—it remained empty. Like a lost sound that never returns. So he left the winding corridors of his mushroom library and followed the tracks in a direction that bore no map. The forest he entered was not one of his usual paths. The trunks stood far apart, but each one was etched with something more than resin or growth rings. When Brammelwurz paused, he heard it: a faint murmuring in the wood, as if it were speaking—or listening. He touched a tree. The bark was warm, not like the sun, but like a thought that had just barely lived. A voice sounded, muffled and heavy, from the depths of the trunk: "I should have told you, back then..." Brammelwurz stepped back. An echo. Not a reverberation of sound, but a memory – locked in the wood. He wandered deeper. The trees grew denser, older, their crowns spoke in creaks and whispers. And again and again, voices emerged from within: things missed, things repressed, truths that had never been spoken. At the base of a crooked tree, he finally found a piece of broken wood – smooth, bright, light as fallen dust. It hummed. Not loudly, but steadily. Brammelwurz knew: this was a piece with weight. He sat down, drew out his carving knife, took a deep breath – and began to work. The wood guided like water. A mask formed beneath his fingers: oval, simple, with large eyes and an open mouth. No decoration, no pomp – just rawness and silence. When he had completed it, a wind settled over the forest. Not an ordinary one—it carried not leaves, but memories. Brammelwurz lifted the mask. It was light. But the moment he put it on, everything changed. He heard. Not with his ears, but with his heart. The voices of the forest became clear, razor-sharp, as if guided by an old blade. "You forgot her because it hurt." "You didn't want to hear her leave." "You were too late, Brammelwurz." The mask left nothing hidden. It didn't speak—it let others speak. Brammelwurz fell to his knees. He remembered the lost voice. Not a name, but a laugh, a promise, a farewell without words. He wept. Silently, as only someone can weep who sees something again that they themselves buried. But the mask was not silent. The trees still whispered. His own voice formed within it, too—words he had never spoken: "I should have stayed." "I thought time was enough." "Forgive me." It was as if the wood of the mask forced every swallowed truth back into the world—not to punish, but to heal. When he removed the mask, the forest was silent. The voices had faded—not gone, but heard.
