I’ve spent more nights in that thought than in any other. The stories feel like fragments of something that wasn’t meant for daylight. Maybe the trees are a kind of memory, a network of whispers, or maybe the spirits are simply echoes of the people who once walked those paths. Either way, the forest seems to have a pulse that we’re only beginning to notice. It’s both thrilling and unsettling, don’t you think?

I was staring at an old map of the valley when I realized every notch and ridge was marked in a way that didn’t match the actual terrain. It felt like someone had etched a story onto the landscape, and then a strange silence fell over me, as if the ground itself was holding its breath. That moment made me think the forest isn’t just trees but a living archive, and maybe we’re all just passing pages.