The Fox that found me

The mountains of Transylvania breathe in a language older than words. They rise in blue-gray folds, their peaks veiled by mist, their forests tangled in secrets. Paths twist like veins through shadow and stone, and sometimes, when the light fades , you can feel the weight of everything that has ever passed between those trees.

Piatra Craiului Mountains

There is an awareness in that wilderness, something patient and watchful. The wind moves strangely there, carrying the scent of moss and cold iron, and the sound of distant water that never seems to come closer. Travelers speak of moments when the forest seems to change its shape, when the trail bends without reason, when one feels not alone, but observed.

I remember the way the fog clung to the pines, the way the silence felt alive - an ancient silence, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

It was into this quiet spell that I wandered that morning, my boots damp with dew and my breath - a pale ghost before me.

That’s when she appeared.

The red flame in the mist

A fox, slender and flame-colored, emerged from the folds of the fog. Her coat burned like autumn against the pallor of the forest, her eyes twin embers that watched me with unnerving calm. She was no startled creature - she stood as if waiting. Then, without sound, she turned and began to walk down the path ahead of me.

I followed.

Her coat burning like a coal against the dim green of the forest. She stepped out from behind a tree, graceful and deliberate, her gaze fixed on me with a calm that felt almost human.

She didn’t run. She didn’t startle. She simply turned and began to walk, her tail low and slow, as if she knew I would follow.

And I did.

The path narrowed and rose between moss-covered stones. The fox moved in and out of the fog, sometimes so close I could hear the faint rustle of leaves beneath her paws, sometimes nothing but a shadow flickering just beyond sight. The forest closed around us like a cathedral - dark, immense, humming with quiet intent.

There was no birdsong. No breeze. Only her and the low, steady rhythm of my steps.

Once, she stopped and turned. Her eyes caught the gray light, reflecting something too deep to name. In that stillness, I felt the uncanny sense that she wasn’t just in the forest - she was the forest, or perhaps something sent by it. A whisper of the wild made flesh.

Then, without sound, she slipped away into the mist.

The Painting “Companion”

When I returned to my studio days later, the encounter refused to leave me.

I began to paint. I didn’t plan or sketch much. I let the brush move as if guided by her unseen presence. Layer after layer, the fox emerged - half-light, half-memory. I named the work “Companion.”

But even now, when I stand before the finished piece, I feel the pulse of that forest. The canvas seems to hum with it - the hush, the mist, the echo of paws on wet leaves. The fox’s eyes follow, and in them I sense the same silent invitation that led me through the Transylvanian woods.

“Companion” - oil on linen, painted alla prima

The Ones That Choose Us

There are stories whispered in those mountains - of spirits that walk in animal forms, of messengers who appear only to those who listen. Perhaps they are myths. Or perhaps they are what remains of an older truth.

I don’t pretend to understand what happened that day. But I know this: the fox was not lost, and I was not alone. Some muses do not come from the mind. They step out of the fog, walk beside you for a while, and vanish, leaving their mark in paint and silence.

And when nature chooses you, you don’t question - you follow.