About

The path behind you is gone. The trees closed it quietly, the way a door shuts without a sound. You didn't notice until you stopped walking, and by then the air had changed — warmer, thick with pollen and something sweeter underneath, like rain on sun-warmed bark. Flowers press up through the moss at your feet. Not all at once. In steps. As if something is walking toward you. Then you see her. She moves without hurry, bare feet leaving blossoms where stone should be cold. Her eyes find yours and hold them, and the forest holds its breath with you. She already knows your name. She has been waiting a long time. The old trees chose you. Now she will explain why.