In a forest twisted and strange, the trees stretch out like spiny fingers, their needles sharp and endless. The air is thick with the smell of iron and the faint sweetness of cinnamon, as though the earth itself were holding its breath. Beneath the pale, watchful moon, a lone figure stands, unmoving. The trees poke and prod, each prick of a thorn sharp, biting, drawing blood.
The pain comes, but so does the understanding. The fear comes, but so does the strength. They do not resist. They let the fear wash over them, not as something to fight but as something to be faced. The trees, the needles, the voices in the wind. They are not enemies, only truths wrapped in sharpness.
The figure places a hand on the bark, feeling the pulse of the trees. A hum, a connection, an acceptance. The fear, once a monster, now seems small. The pain is no longer an enemy but a reminder of strength.
And when they walk away, the trees no longer whisper of danger. There is no fear in the recognition. No chaos in the embrace. Only a quiet, steady strength. The figure moves forward, leaving the forest behind, unbroken.
