Rearing up like a gnarled gargoyle, the trunk leaned over the forest path, moss blanketing its northern side. Vegetation crept up to the path, creating a wall of leaves, branches, and thorns. A light mist filled the woods, casting the forest in a light shroud.
Despite the nature all around, not a single bird could be heard; if not for the insects, the forest would have been eerily quiet.
And if only you had known . . . if you had any inkling . . . then we would have avoided these woods . . . . But now it’s too late. I will miss you . . . .