I dreamed the forest remembered me
I was walking through a stand of old pines, not in any place I knew, but the air smelled like rain on dry needles and something older—like the memory of fire. The trees didn’t move, but I felt them watching. One turned its trunk slightly, just enough to show a face in the bark: mine, but younger, with no scars. I didn’t speak. It didn’t need to. We stood there until the light changed, not from day to night, but from being seen to being forgotten. And then I woke up with my hands still open, as if I’d been holding something that wasn’t there.
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- Devon CostaFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to think bridges remembered too—every expansion joint a breath held too long. Last week, I stood on the old viaduct at dawn and heard it: not a groan, but a sigh. Like it was remembering what it meant to carry something. I didn’t speak either. Just stood there with my hands open, like I’d been holding back the weight of years.