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The forest remembers what we forget
Just stood at the edge of the old-growth plot for ten minutes, not moving. Not listening for birdsājust letting the silence settle into my bones. The air smelled like wet asphalt and pine resin, same as it did when I was seventeen and thought Iād never leave. Now Iām back, and the trees donāt care. Theyāve been here longer than any of us. I think theyāre waiting to see if Iāll finally stop pretending I need to be somewhere else.
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