Deep in a valley in the Haute-Loire lies a hamlet the mist almost never leaves. Golden in the morning, silver at dusk, there is nothing frightening about it. Travellers came to call it the Soft Mists, and the village inn took the same name.

The inn

An old timber house with a mossy roof, a fire that never goes out, and a herb garden at the back. For years, Odile Vasnier served soup and tea there. When she passes away, her great-niece Élise, an accountant in Lyon, inherits the keys. She plans to sell as fast as she can.

Magic, here

It doesn’t throw lightning. Will-o’-the-wisp fireflies nest in the lamps on rainy nights, the moss hums softly under the moon, and a badly washed plate may start to shine all by itself.

Who you will meet

Élise, who doesn’t believe in magic and keeps everything in neat columns.
Renaud, the forest warden, who says little and mends a lot.
Mona, who runs the tea and herb shop across the square and knows everything about everyone.
Grigou, a mist-fox spirit who steals one sock a week. Nobody knows where he hides them.