This crushed christmas tree scent of a hundred childhoods never lived. A yearning for our forest lives and the comfort fire of a storybook past. A brother who went into the woods to seek his fortune and a sister who pricked her finger and fell asleep.
Walking silent and silent on a pine needle floor. A wolf leads me into some velveteen deep. Hushed in the stillness of those silhouette trees, my hand on my compass and my heart in fear. Though I walk the forest of my enemies disguised, I trust in my guide and his dumb, animal eyes.


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