Thorn moved through the forest as if it were a cathedral—each step reverent, each breath measured. The weight of age rested in his bones, but not heavily. It was a familiar companion, as comforting as the moss beneath his boots. The trees recognized him. Even in their silence, they knew. He could feel their awareness pressing gently against his thoughts, like leaves brushing his skin.
"I am here," he whispered, touching a bark-streaked pine with his fingertips. "I seek no harm. I only ask that you remember me."
The tree's limbs quivered faintly in the night breeze. Thorn smiled. He did not expect words. The forest did not speak in syllables, but in pulses of life, breath, and stillness. He stepped over a small sprout, careful not to crush it, and whispered an apology to a fallen branch h
