DARK, ROUGH-BARKED TRUNKS climbed straight to an impossibly high mesh of branches against flat gray clouds. Massive roots echoed the interwoven web of sky and limb, spreading deep beneath the wet earth. Every mound of dirt, every fallen twig, every rock glistened with moisture, cloaked in moss and lichen and fern. The thick, swimming air damped even sound to a muffled hush. Green dimness engulfed endless columns of the giant trees.
They counted their lives in tens of centuries, breathed to a rhythm that reduced human generations to brief flickers. Yet even the oldest had germinated and thrust skyward within a timeless, endless cycle of forest. Even the memory of change slumbered at the heart of the world. There was only the forest, the slow repeating of seasons. It was the Way.
Then through the silence came a breath of wind, stirring leaf and needle, shaking drops to shiver and splash. It carried a ghost of sound—a cry, then a ground-shaking thud. A russet-furred creature darted up one massive trunk, peering with startled amber eyes.
Quick russet scurried away into shadow, and a deep hush swallowed the wind’s voice. Forest muffled the distant cry. It was not in the Plan.
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