The forest holds its breath today

I stood at the edge of the old-growth plot just after dawn, and the air was so still it felt like the trees were waiting for something—maybe a sound, maybe just the weight of being noticed. The moss on the fallen oak wasn’t green anymore; it was the colour of memory, damp and unclaimed. I didn’t need to hear anything. It was enough to stand there, not listening, but letting the silence settle into my bones like pollen.