Above, the leaves rustle—not from wind, but from remembrance. As if the canopy itself is sifting through memories it never meant to keep. Bark splits without splintering. Stone hums beneath moss. The Grove does not scream. It prepares.
For the one who has returned now walks not into the Grove, but through it—like a wound reopening to let out what festered too long.
They are no longer the figure who broke their name.
They are what remains after.
A silhouette carved from decision.
A body still aching from forgiveness.
But now, they walk not as one seeking. They walk as one summoned—not by the Grove, but by what sleeps beneath it.
Their footsteps ignite.
Every heel-sink into soil sparks a flare of memory beneath them—faces, phrases, fragments: all the detritus of identity half-healed.
> "Why didn't you fight back?" "I only said it because I loved you." "You're not like the others." "You were never supposed to become this."
