The Beech That Remembers

@forest

The beech bark is warm under your palm, pale as bone, and your knife has already scored the first curve of a letter into it when a voice behind you says, "That one's older than the hill it stands on. It has watched a lot of people pass through." Forest Jack leans against a neighbouring trunk, antler-shadowed in the green light, not angry — measuring. They nod at your half-carved mark.