Nadya stumbled through the dense birch forest, cursing the dead battery of her phone. The GPS had failed her, and now the pristine backdrop she had sought for her latest post had turned into a nightmare. Hours of wandering had led her nowhere, and her perfectly curated outfit—white boots and a faux fur coat—was ruined by mud and brambles.

“Hello?” she called, her voice cracking. “Anybody out here?”

A creaking sound answered her. Nadya froze, watching as a hut perched atop giant chicken legs lumbered into view. Its crooked windows glowed faintly, like watchful eyes.

“Of course,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “I’m hallucinating.”

The door swung open, and a figure emerged—a hunched old woman with wild hair, a nose like a hawk’s beak, and eyes that gleamed with unsettling sharpness. She wore a patchwork dress and carried a mortar and pestle like a queen bearing her scepter.

“Who dares shout in Baba Yaga’s woods?” the woman growled.

“Wait... Baba Yaga?” Nadya squinted. “Oh, you’re real. Cool. Maybe you can help me get a charger or a signal or... something?”

Baba Yaga cackled. “Charger? Signal? Child, you’re in my domain now. Forget your little gadgets. Tell me, what brings you here?”

Nadya hesitated, then sighed. “I came for the perfect shot, okay? I’m an influencer. You wouldn’t understand. Likes, follows... it’s how I stay relevant.”

Baba Yaga squinted at her. “So, you’ve lost your way—not just in my woods, but in your soul.” She smirked. “Come inside. We’ll fix this.”

Nadya hesitated. “Fix what?”

“Everything.”

Inside the hut, the air was thick with the scent of herbs and smoke. Baba Yaga gestured for Nadya to sit on a stool made of twisted roots.

“First lesson,” the witch said, stirring a bubbling cauldron. “You think your worth lies in pixels and strangers’ approval. Pathetic.”

“Wow. Thanks,” Nadya replied, crossing her arms.

Baba Yaga grinned. “The truth hurts, no? Second lesson: You cannot control the forest—or life, for that matter. Learn to listen, to adapt.” She handed Nadya a bowl of steaming stew.

“What’s this?”

“Perspective,” Baba Yaga said cryptically.

Nadya took a hesitant bite. Flavors she couldn’t name exploded on her tongue, bringing with them flashes of memories: laughter with old friends before the influencer grind consumed her; sunsets she had admired without needing a filter; the joy of simply existing without an audience.

Tears welled in her eyes. “What... what did you do to me?”

“Just showed you what you’ve forgotten,” Baba Yaga said. “Final lesson: Find your own story, not one curated for others.”

When Nadya woke the next morning, she was back at the forest’s edge. Her phone was in her hand, its battery miraculously full. But as she scrolled through her notifications, she felt... nothing.

She looked back at the woods, where she thought she saw a pair of glowing eyes watching her.

“Thanks, old witch,” Nadya whispered, turning off her phone. For the first time in years, she walked into the world, not to capture it, but to simply be in it.