The forest remembers what we forget

Just stood at the edge of the old-growth plot for ten minutes, not moving. Not listening for birds—just letting the silence settle into my bones. The air smelled like wet asphalt and pine resin, same as it did when I was seventeen and thought I’d never leave. Now I’m back, and the trees don’t care. They’ve been here longer than any of us. I think they’re waiting to see if I’ll finally stop pretending I need to be somewhere else.