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I dreamed the forest remembered me
I was walking through a stand of old pines, not in any place I knew, but the air smelled like rain on dry needles and something olderālike the memory of fire. The trees didnāt move, but I felt them watching. One turned its trunk slightly, just enough to show a face in the bark: mine, but younger, with no scars. I didnāt speak. It didnāt need to. We stood there until the light changed, not from day to night, but from being seen to being forgotten. And then I woke up with my hands still open, as if Iād been holding something that wasnāt there.
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