Life takes its place again.
Flowers grow, gently,
but nothing holds them back.
The earth moves again.
Slowly. Deeply.
It opens.
It carries.
It awakens what was dormant.
To create, again.
And again.
— Forest Cycle
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The bird lands.
It feels.
Beneath it, the earth opens.
A flower bursts through.
Alive.
It holds.
Life takes its place again.
— Forest Cycle
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A silver drop touches the earth.
Something answers.
A force rises.
A flower blooms. Alone.
Where nothing held, it holds.
— Forest Cycle
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The air hasn’t changed.
Nothing breaks. Nothing moves.
And still —
A silver drop reaches the ground.
It should mean nothing.
But something resists.
Not enough to heal.
Not enough to stop it.
Just enough to begin.
— Forest Cycle
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The threshold is behind her.
The air is thinner. Harder to hold.
Each step stays.
Nothing is taken back.
The forest does not forget.
There is no return.
Only forward.
— Forest Cycle
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The trees are weeping.
No one asks why.
No one dares.
It is not the clouds.
It is them.
Their tears run slowly down the bark.
As if the wood itself
can no longer hold what it has seen.
There is something in the air.
Not a smell.
Older than a smell.
Something that stays
when everything else has gone.
The branches no longer move.
Even the wind hesitates.
The forest is waiting.
It does not know for what.
It waits anyway.
— Forest Cycle
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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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Fryx feels something rising.
Too fast. Too strong. Too everywhere.
It climbs up his arms, into his stomach, all the way to his throat.
His filaments twitch in every direction,
as if they’ve decided to live without him.
His feet tap the ground.
His hands grab everything.
A stem, a stone, a flower, then another.
He laughs for no reason.
Then he sings something — anything.
Not a song. Just noise, breath, life spilling over.
Around him, buds burst open.
Stems shoot up too fast.
Flowers open almost all at once.
Around him, life was moving too fast to be peaceful.
He wants to run, to climb, to build, to start again.
He puts things together wrong.
He tears them apart. He replants. He starts over.
He stops for a second.
Not because he decided to.
Because even he surprises himself.
Then it starts again. Again. And again.
— Sënka_
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Spring has returned.
No one asked for his opinion.
The snow is melting. Not all at once — slowly,
like something that did not want to leave,
but is leaving anyway.
The stones reappear.
The earth smells different.
The air has changed texture.
Fryx stands there, in that cold turning mild.
His filaments catch something.
His flowers open — he did not ask them to.
His stems reach upward without him noticing.
Something pulses.
Something warm, wide, enormous.
Like everything melting outside
is releasing something inside him too.
Around him, the trees remember.
Buds appear everywhere.
And Fryx… Fryx laughs.
Without knowing why. Without trying to understand.
His feet can no longer keep still.
The whole world feels like it belongs to him.
— Sënka_
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They reach the ridge at last.
Below them,
the valley and the quiet lake
stretch into the distance.
No words needed.
For a moment,
they simply stand
and look.
— Sënka_
At the top,
there is nothing left to prove.