This is not a forest.
Something happened here.
No one says what.
The trees know.
They do not speak.
The air is heavy.
Not with rain.
With something older.
Something that stayed
when everything else left.
The light that falls here
does not reach the ground.
It stops midway.
As if it remembers.
As if it is afraid to touch
what is below.
The path is still here.
No one knows why.
That is all we know.
For now.
— Forest Cycle
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