They still tell the story of a farmer who once saw a mythical shape at the edge of a field. Certain it was a deer with strange horns, he chased it into the mist. The creature led him deep into the trees before vanishing, leaving nothing but silence - and a story that outlived his time. The villagers in this area call it Limena, though no one agrees where it appeared first. It hasn’t been seen in decades, yet the forest still carries its traces: hand-shaped prints in the wet soil, half-gnawed mushrooms, berries scattered like offerings. Where it passes, the ground is turned, seeds and spores pressed into the earth, as if the forest uses its wandering to fuel itself. Rarely it gets caught on the cameras of the forest guards, a brief flicker before the image blurs. Limena is a patchwork of feathers, fur, scales, and antlers — as though the forest could not choose a single body and stitched them all together. It limps on uneven birdlike legs, bobs and humps in slow, looping patterns when it feeds, each step a syllable in a language only the forest understands. It seems not dangerous, only shy — startled, as though surprised by its own being. And if you are very lucky, you may see it at dawn, looking back with all its borrowed eyes as if to ask: “Who is the stranger here, me, or you?”