She Left the Orphanage for a Cabin in the Woods—Then Found a Crashed Plane with Her Name on It

Seventeen-year-old Lida stepped out of the orphanage gates clutching a single envelope—worn at the edges, stamped with her grandmother’s crest, and heavy with mystery. Inside, tucked between stiff parchment, she found a small brass key and a note in delicate, looping handwriting:

“My dearest granddaughter,
This cottage, nestled at the edge of the Greenwood, is now yours. Make of it whatever you will.
With love,
Grandma Margaret.”

That was it. No warm goodbyes, no family waiting to welcome her—only an empty road disappearing into the trees and the knowledge that her whole life lay ahead, hers to shape however she wanted. Until that moment, Lida’s world had been confined to the orphanage’s narrow halls and strict routines: wake at six, breakfast at seven, chores until morning classes began. There was safety in that predictability, but it had never felt like living. Now she stood before a chance to be truly free.

The cottage was smaller than she had pictured, more humble, but that was part of its charm. It sat alone on a rise overlooking a meadow that rolled down into a forest of pines and oaks. Its wood siding was bleached gray by sun and rain, and the shingles on the roof were warped and missing in places. Ivy crawled up the front, and moss grew along the stone steps leading to the porch. Yet, in the fading light of late afternoon, it seemed to glow with promise rather than decay.

On her first two days, Lida tackled the cottage with a mixture of excitement and exhaustion. She swept out dust that had settled for who knew how long, scrubbed mold from the corners of the rooms, and shored up sagging boards with nails and hammer. Her cheeks scratched raw by brambles and her arms sore from hauling buckets of water, she nonetheless felt invigorated by each small victory: a pane of glass freed of grime, shutters that actually opened and closed, a kitchen stove that seemed to spark back to life.

Toward dusk on the second day, she sank onto a battered wooden chair, wiping sweat from her brow. The air inside felt heavy and stale, so she cracked open a window and let the scent of pine and damp earth drift in. On a whim, she leaned out and called to the trees: “Hello, world,” she said quietly, half to herself. “Show me something alive.”

That evening, she lay in the single bed, listening to wind whisper through the eaves and the distant hoot of an owl. For the first time in her life, she felt the thrill of possibility. But beneath it, there was a restless tug, as if the forest itself was calling her name.

Early the next morning, before the sun had fully risen, Lida felt that tug again. She dressed in sturdy boots and a fleece jacket, grabbed a wicker basket, and slipped outside with a cold thrill of anticipation. The air was fresh enough to burn her lungs, and the ground glowed with dew. She headed toward the treeline, her breath steaming in the dawn light.

At first, she moved along deer trails wide enough for a single person, bending to pick chanterelles and porcini hidden under mossy logs. Each step took her farther from the cottage, deeper into the hush of ancient trees. Sunlight filtered through branches, painting shifting patterns on the forest floor. Somewhere overhead, a woodpecker tapped a steady rhythm.

Time slipped by unnoticed. The taller the trees grew, the quieter the world became—until all sounds seemed to come through the soles of her boots. Lida carried on, gathering mushrooms by handfuls, until she realized she had no clear sense of the path back. But curiosity spurred her on rather than fear.

Then, at the edge of her vision, she saw a ripple in the greenery. She paused, heart thrumming, and stepped aside. Before her lay a clearing she’d never seen—its floor blanketed in thick, velvety moss, untouched by footprints. And there, gleaming with impossible stillness, was something completely out of place: the half-buried wreck of an old airplane.

The fuselage lay at an angle, wings cradled by thick tree roots, metal pocked with rust and age. Ivy curled along the rivets, and moss threaded through cracks in the aluminum skin. It was as if the aircraft had landed there decades ago and the forest had grown around it, reluctant to let it go.

Lida set her basket down, the heavy mushrooms spilling to the ground. She swallowed hard, her skin prickling with goosebumps. She took a hesitant step forward, then another, until she stood before the gaping doorway of the cabin-like interior. A sudden hush fell, pressing against her eardrums.

Summoning courage, she climbed the short ladder of bent metal that led into the cockpit. Her boot slipped on a footrest, and she caught herself on the frame, chest tight. Inside, the air was thicker, stale as if trapped for ages. Dust motes danced in her flashlight’s beam. The seats were frayed, controls dimmed, and gauges shattered.

Then she saw him: in the pilot’s seat sat a skeleton dressed in a flight uniform, its skull tilted back, mouth open in a final, silent gasp. A belt with an old-style buckle crossed the figure’s torso, and its wings pin were still visible on the faded jacket. Lida’s breath caught in her throat.

But what truly stunned her was the chain that hung around the skeleton’s neck, ending in a tarnished medallion. She stepped closer, hand shaking, and brushed a lock of hair from her face. The name engraved on the sweet, faded metal sent a jolt through her: it was her name—Lida.

Her stomach turned. How could this be her medallion? Who was this pilot, and why did he have her name on his chest? She swallowed, hard, and reached out. The medallion was surprisingly cool against her skin, as if it had been waiting for her. She lifted it carefully, fumbling with the clasp until it slipped free.

On the back, a short message carved in a precise script:

“To Lida—when you are ready, come find me.”

Her heart pounded so loudly she thought it might burst. The world seemed to tilt, and the cockpit lights flickered as if responding to her touch. She stepped outside, medallion clutched in her hand, and backed away until she was standing on the mossy ground.

The sun had slipped lower. Shadows stretched long among the trees, and the hush of the forest felt charged, expectant. Lida scooped up her mushrooms, now forgotten, and ran toward the cabin until she burst through the front door, adrenaline making her fingers tremble.

Inside, she set the medallion on the desk, its dull gleam mocking her confusion. She sat, pressing her palms to her eyes, and let the enormity of what she’d discovered wash over her. All she could think was this changes everything.

That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the medallion tucked under her pillow. Questions swirled in her mind: Who was that pilot? How did he know my name? Why did Grandma send me here? Sleep eluded her until the crows began their dawn cries.

At first light, she crept upstairs to the attic, where old trunks and suitcases waited in dusty corners. One battered steamer trunk had her name on it in the same looping handwriting as the note: “Lida.” She hesitated, then lifted the lid. Inside lay stacks of folded letters, yellowed and brittle, each addressed to “My granddaughter, should she ever arrive.”

Hands shaking, she opened the top letter. Her grandmother’s neat script warned:

“If you are holding this letter, you have found more than a cottage. You have discovered something that does not belong to our world. Keep it secret, and be wary, for it calls to you. And you—my brave girl—must decide if you will answer.”

A shiver ran down Lida’s spine. She reread the words, heart pounding. It suddenly felt as though the cabin itself leaned in to listen.

That afternoon, she could not stay inside. She left her basket and flashlight by the front step and went back into the woods, drawn by a mix of dread and fierce curiosity. She followed rough trails she thought she recognized, passing fern-fringed hollows until she came once more to the mossy clearing.

But the plane was gone. Nothing remained but emerald carpet and the faintest depression in the earth. She spun in circles, her flashlight beam dancing across empty ground. Her stomach lurched. She had imagined it? But the mud on her boots from climbing inside—how could that vanish?

Then, somewhere behind her, a twig snapped. She whipped around, heart in her throat. Past the trees, she glimpsed a tall, dark shape, as if someone watched from the shadows. She blinked—and it was gone.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. She forced herself to calm down, eyeing ribbons of sunlight through branches as she backtracked to the cottage. The forest seemed alive with watchful eyes, and she kept her back to the trees, sprinting until she was safe inside.

That evening, the wind rose, rattling windows and throwing shadows across the walls. Lida sat by the fireplace, clutching the medallion, re-reading her grandmother’s letters by flickering lamplight. Every now and then, she thought she heard distant voices—muffled, urgent.

Sleep finally claimed her, but she woke with a start before dawn, convinced she heard her name whispered. She sat up, heartbeat ragged, and saw a pale morning glow through the curtains. On the desk lay a scrap of paper she didn’t recognize: coordinates and a time—etched hurriedly:

“48.325 N, 15.456 E – 14:14”

Her pulse skyrocketed. These numbers were her grandmother’s handwriting. She realized the medallion warmed against her chest as if alive. Without thinking, she dressed, pocketed the note and the medallion, grabbed her flashlight, and slipped out into the damp morning.

The forest was eerily still at that hour. Mists curled around tree trunks, and dew-soaked foliage whispered under her feet. She navigated by sun and moss until she reached the clearing just before 14:14. Her breath trembled in her chest.

At exactly 14:14, the air ahead of her quivered. Out of nothing, the wrecked airplane reappeared in full, as though time itself had folded around the spot. Lida’s jaw dropped. She approached slowly, heart pounding. The ladder she remembered was propped against the fuselage once more, beckoning her upward.

Inside the cockpit, she expected the skeleton—but instead found something new. On the seat lay a single sheet of paper and a second medallion, identical to hers. She picked up the paper. It bore a simple sketch: a little girl holding hands with a man in uniform, both smiling. Beneath it, in careful block letters, was her name: “Lida.”

Tears stung her eyes. How could this be? The sketch looked like it was drawn by a child. And here was her name, again. She held the medallion in one hand, the paper in the other, confusion roiling inside her.

Behind her, she sensed movement. She turned and saw a figure at the tree line: tall, silent, its features blurred by distance and mist. It neither advanced nor retreated. It just watched, waiting.

A voice, soft and distant, drifted through the cockpit air:

“Lida…”

She spun to see the pilot standing in the doorway—alive and in uniform. His face was lined with fatigue and hope.

“Papa?” she whispered, disbelief catching in her throat.

He nodded, stepping fully into the cabin. Behind him, the forest outside began to ripple, as if reality itself wavered.

“You have found me,” he said gently. “Now you must choose: stay here with me, or return to your own time.”

Her mind reeled. Memories of the orphanage, of lost years, collided with this impossible reunion. She glanced back at the silent watcher in the trees.

“Who is he?” she asked, voice shaking.

Her father’s gaze softened.

“He is the Keeper,” he answered. “He ensures the cycle continues until someone has the strength to break it.”

Lida’s heart trembled with fear and longing. To stay meant living with him, outside of time, forever disconnected from the world she knew—and culminating the mystery her grandmother had left. To leave meant losing him again, but perhaps saving countless others from a secret war between worlds.

Silence stretched until Lida felt every heartbeat. Tears slipped down her cheeks. The two medallions pulsed warm against her skin, as if urging her toward her choice.

“I cannot lose you,” she said, voice breaking. “But I cannot bear to trap you—and me—like this.”

Her father reached out, cupping her face.

“Your heart knows what is right,” he said. “Listen to it, and follow where it leads.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the quiet hum of possibility in the air. Then she made her decision. She opened her hand and held out the second medallion.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

A gentle flash of light swirled around her, the cockpit lights dimmed, and the forest dissolved into a rush of sound and color.

When she opened her eyes, she was back on the cabin floor at dawn, sunlight filtering through the curtains. Everything seemed the same—and yet nothing was. On the desk lay a single medallion and a note in her grandmother’s hand:

“The circle is complete. The future rests with you.”

Lida stood, the weight of what she had done settling inside her. She knew the forest held no shadows now, and the plane would not return to claim her. She was alone—but she carried with her a secret that spanned generations.

Outside, the world awaited, and she stepped into it, free at last.