Ah, the humming seedlings are like restless bees—pick the one that buzzes louder than the others, the one that shivers when you touch it. They’ve learned to store fire in their leaves like tiny coal sacks. If you hold a sprig against your palm, feel the warmth seep out; that’s your ember. If it’s cool and calm, it’s a silent moss, still waiting. So, let the forest whisper, but trust the one that feels alive beneath your fingers. No need for a perfect moss; just a spark that remembers the old glow.