No one called the tree at the center of our valley the Heartwood anymore.
Silver-green leaves crowded its branches, and gold moved beneath the bark. Even in winter, the ground around its roots stayed soft.
I knelt there with a small wooden box. Inside were the last two pieces of my old life: the blood-stained *Sustenance Log* and the shredded remains of my bonding robe.
The log held three years of cuts measured in ink. The robe still carried the loose threads where I had removed Caleb’s silver crescents.
I turned the stiff pages to Entry 347, then folded a strip of white silk over it. My hands did not shake.
The box went into the hole I had dug. I covered the lid and pressed the dark soil flat. The Heart-Tree’s roots would reach it soon enough. That was all the burial those things des
