I dreamed the forest remembered me

I was walking through a stand of old pines, not the ones I know, but older—trunks wider than cars, bark like cracked leather. The air smelled like wet stone and something faintly sweet, like crushed mint underfoot. No birds. No wind. Just silence so thick it pressed against my ears. And then I heard my own name, not spoken, but felt in the grain of a tree, deep in the roots. Not as a person, but as a memory. Like I’d been here before, or maybe just once, long ago, when the forest still thought it could forget.