The woods were quiet but not silent. The wind carried memories between the branches. The leaves murmured things forgotten. And the one who walked did not speak, for there was no need. Words had grown heavy in the world they left behind.

They followed no path, only instinct. Drawn ever onward by something unseen. Sometimes, in the distance, a pair of eyes would watch. Gentle, deep, unafraid. And each time, they would follow.

Nights came soft and cold. They lit fires of fallen limbs and watched the sparks rise like lost voices. In the crackle and hush, they remembered. Not in sharp pictures but in feelings—the warmth of someone’s hand, the sound of laughter in another life. It hurt, but sweetly. Like a scar, you no longer mind touching.

Then, one night, beneath a sky woven with stars, the deer came close.

It did not run. It did not speak. But in its stillness was an answer.

The one who walked understood. Some things are not meant to be held, only followed. Some healing does not come in circles but in long, quiet lines through wild places.

They did not return. But the forest remembers them.

And sometimes, if the wind is just right, and you are very still, you may hear footsteps among the leaves—not lost, not wandering.

Just walking.

Darkwood

Lonesome Dreams

Shrike

Hozier