I’ll be long gone by the time you read this.

I’ll be long gone by the time the trees regain their ivy sheen and the sun comes back around.

But I’ve lived a long life, a very long life.

And I have a message to share.

So wherever you are, put on your comfiest sweater, curl up on your comfiest chair, and flip to the next crinkled page.

This is the end of my story.

But this is the beginning of yours.

The house in the woods was famous, in the way that the Wicked Witch of the West was famous in Oz.

No one had ever been brave enough to see it in person, but the tales stretched far and wide. Some people said it was made of wood, others said it was made of stone, and to others it was a hodge-podge of a million different materials. It was said to have a rectangular shape with a pointed roof and a small chimney peeking out. The trees surrounding the small house, it was said, whispered the house’s secrets, if you leaned close enough. As the years had gone by, the secrets had become darker and darker.

Eventually, the idea of a witch living in the house surfaced.

People would run around saying: Have you heard of the witch? What did she do? Do you know who she is?

I will save you the hassle of asking all those people all those questions.

I am the witch.

I am the witch in the sense that I am an old widow who has lived in the woods in seclusion for so long that people have begun to wonder about me. And whenever people wonder . . . well, it’s usually not so good for the person who is the subject of that wondering.

It is, perhaps, partly my fault. I set myself up. And I did not try to beat away the rumors.

I wasn’t very active in the town. I rarely left my house, and when I did, I stuck to the alleys and darted between shadows. So I had no idea just how bad the rumors were.

They came to me, late at night. I was unprepared. I didn’t have a chance to fight. They came with their screaming words and burning torches, and they lit wood under my feet I hadn’t even realized was there.

If I had truly been a witch, I could have saved myself. I could have transformed all of them into mice or flew away on my broomstick.

Unfortunately, I’m not a witch, as much as they would have liked to believe otherwise.

I assume you’re wondering how I’m writing this after such an event occurred. You must be thinking I am a witch, if I managed to survive that, or that I am writing from the dead—in which case, I would still have to be a witch.

Once again, I will have to disappoint you.

You may have noticed that the edges of the pieces of paper in this diary are charred and burnt. At the time you are reading this, they may even be so brittle that one simple turn of the page will cause the burnt pieces to snap off.

Yes, the house in the woods did fall. And yes, I fell with it.

Yet in the time it took for the house and I to fall, I managed to gather my thoughts into this, which is why I am almost entirely sure this does not make sense right now.

Of course, I will leave what I just said up to interpretation. If I was a witch, I would know how to lie, and very persuasively . . . (Yes, I do love to work in rhymes and puzzles. It’s entertaining. The frustrating side can’t be helped.)

The truth is, like I said before, I did live a very long life. Only, I died before I ever truly lived.

My husband died decades ago, when I wasn’t ready to be a widow. I never came to terms with his death. After he died, I withdrew from society.

I didn’t always live in a house in the woods; we lived in the town, but I couldn’t bear to continue living there after his death. I moved here, and I refused to go out. I stopped talking to friends. I refused visits from relatives. And then I became the witch, and no one wanted to talk to me anyways.

Time has gotten away from me. Time should not get away from you. You should not grow old before your time, like I have.

I don’t mean to be cliché. Really, all this is making me sick, if I wasn’t sick enough from the choking ash. I would much rather be a wicked old witch brewing potions and plotting evil. But like I said before, that option was never available.

So what I’m saying is, don’t be like me. Don’t hide away in a little old house in a forest. Don’t let other people think you’re a witch.

And if, somehow, you do hide away in a little old house in a forest and you do let other people think you’re a witch, then take that and run with it. Be a witch. I certainly wish I had.

That’s my story.

I don’t ask for your pity. Trust me, I don’t want it.

But if you do have a story to tell, well, flip to the next blank page and start writing . . .