Memory 2: Whispering Forest Sea

You forward with a sharp breath, thinking you would fall into the blank cloud, but instead, your fingertips brush against something cool, like silk laced with light.

What…?

A breath.
The world shifts.

The scent reaches you first, pine needles, damp earth, something sweet like forgotten flowers. Then, the green spills in, soft and endless. Trees stretch high above, their trunks wrapped in moss, leaves trembling with faint light. Everything hums quietly, as if the air itself is breathing.

It’s not sudden.
It’s like the world has been waiting, and finally, it lets you in.
You step onto the forest floor, grass muffled, leaves scattered like quiet thoughts beneath your feet. The air is still, but expectant.
Then, a shift.
One leaf rises. Not with the breeze—it moves on its own. Spirals once, then glides forward in a steady, deliberate arc.
You don’t ask questions yet. You’ve learned that nothing here answers easily.
But you follow.
It leads you deeper. Between trees too old to be born, under a sky too soft to name. Until, at the heart of the grove, you see it:
A fawn, barely the size of a breath, stands waiting. Still. Watching.
The leaf floats down onto its back.
You stop, just far enough away to leave space for an answer.
“…Was that meant for me?” you ask.
The fawn’s gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s one of yours.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“Let me guess—if I touch it, something will happen.”
“It might stir something,” the fawn says. “But not all at once.”
You take a step forward. “This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this, is it?”
“No,” it replies. “But it’s the first time you've followed it this far.”
Your breath catches. “Why did I forget?”
The fawn lowers its head.
“It wasn’t you,” it says. “Not fully.”
You frown. “Then who?”
“Some part of you shut the door before you could see what was behind it. You just… never opened it again.”
Your pulse flickers. Not with fear—but with the weight of something half-remembered.
“So this is a memory,” you say.
“A shard,” the fawn answers. “You left them scattered when things… split.”
You crouch slightly. “Was I running from something?”
“Not running. Protecting.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
You glance at the leaf. It glows faintly, like breath caught in a jar.
You reach out.
The moment your fingers graze its edge, something loosens inside you.
Not a vision—just a crack.
You feel it:
Something struck.
Something broke.
You couldn’t hold it.
So it vanished.
And you stayed behind.
Alone.
You exhale, slow.
“…That felt like drowning,” you say.
The fawn nods once. “Memory doesn’t always return like light. Sometimes it comes back like weight.”
You look at it.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re finally listening.”
There’s no pride in its voice. Just quiet certainty.
You rise again, slower this time. “So what am I supposed to do with this?”
The fawn tilts its head.
“Keep going.”
You almost laugh. “That’s all?”
“It’s more than you think.”
You glance up. The leaf rises again—slower now, as if reluctant to leave. It lifts through the trees, fading into the light above.
The forest seems quieter now.
No, more awake.
You look back at the fawn.
“I feel like I’ve lost something I won’t ever get back.”
“Maybe you haven’t lost it,” the fawn says. “Maybe it’s still waiting for you to stop being afraid of it.”
You pause.
And that silence is an answer, too.
The fawn steps backward. Its shape blurs—not disappearing, but dissolving into the breath of the forest.
And you’re alone again.
Only this time, it doesn’t feel like nothing.
It feels like something is beginning.

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