Anne doesn’t gently enter this story—she crash-lands into it. One moment she’s soaring, the next she’s flat on the ground in a strange new world. It’s not unlike Alice’s tumble or Dorothy’s whirlwind ride: a jolt that throws a child out of the familiar and into the fantastic.

But this forest clearing isn’t a wonderland or an emerald land of witches. It’s tense. Crooked branches reach like old fingers. Odd sounds echo from deep within the trees. Something growls. Still, sunlight slips through, and Anne, though frightened, doesn’t run. She watches. She listens. She waits.

That quiet hesitation matters. This story doesn’t rush forward—it asks us to pay attention.

Then: three paths. One barely visible. Two others connected by a worn trail. It’s a simple image, but a powerful one. We’re at a fork before the plot has even begun. It’s a story about decisions—big and small—and how the smallest detour can shape everything.

And just when she’s about to choose, whump! Something falls from the sky.

Her backpack.

At first it’s just a relief—soft, familiar, safe. Then it speaks.

The shock is funny, but also quietly profound. Suddenly, a cherished object has a voice. Not a wise guide like Glinda, not a white rabbit with a pocket watch—just a cranky, mistreated sidekick with a lot to say. Pouchy doesn’t explain the rules of this world. She challenges them.

This moment flips the usual roles: Anne isn’t just the child giving meaning to her surroundings. The world around her is alive—and it remembers. What she once ignored now demands attention.

The charm of the scene lies in its balance: it’s playful and strange, but rooted in emotion. Anne isn’t handed a map or a prophecy. She’s startled, a little angry—and beginning to engage.

This is how the journey begins. Not with destiny, but with a fall, a voice from the unexpected, and three unknown paths waiting ahead.