The Fallen Remains

That part was quiet—expected. The weight of years, or maybe wind, had long been pressing in. And when the time came, the tree let go with little protest.

What surprised it was what came after.

Rot didn’t hurt. The splitting bark, the softened core—those were just stages of decomposition. Then the voices arrived. Curling from the shadows, soft, ear-like growths pressed close, as if to listen. As if the tree still had something left to say.

Still, no one listens to the fallen.

It had no more leaves to rustle, no more roots to reach, but still it spoke—slowly, in rings and silence. And the forest, somehow, still listened.