I didn’t live in Wildfield.

But I drew it, dreamt of it, and wrote it into being.

It isn’t a city on any map. It’s what’s left behind when cities die. A place where old myths don’t disappear — they grow wild.

In Wildfield, light lives in lanterns, and lanterns hold souls. The ones who carry them are never alone — their loved ones glow faintly within the flame. No one really dies here. But no one is fully alive either.

The city of the future — New Citadel — has laws. Children must wander Wildfield first, barefoot and unarmed, until the land agrees to let them go.

The siblings Idun and Pan were among them. They lost their way before they could reach the gates — but losing your way is often how the real story begins.

Pan chose to stay.

Idun went on.

In between them grew a world of rebel opossums, a silent library, a daughter asleep in the swamp, and figures wandering with lanterns. It’s a place where myths aren’t remembered — they are lived.

Wildfield is a feeling, not a destination.

A forest of forgotten stories.

A civilization without permission.