You know the stories. Know them just as deeply as the woods from which they sprang. You know to stay on the path, to ignore that tug within your chest when the wind whispers through the leaves. You know it’s the voice of the trees trying to call you home. You know, in the furthest reaches of your soul, how perfectly you’d fit beneath their roots.
You know it’s not time yet.
You’re young, though sometimes your bones feel the centuries your ancestors lived. You’re only borrowing them after all....
