"The Forest of Memories" (Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Kris trudged along the winding road, his boots pressing into the damp earth of March. It was a month of in-betweens, neither winter nor spring, the air heavy with the scent of thawing soil and the last brittle whispers of frost. Bare branches reached toward a sky that could not decide whether to be gray or blue. He walked with no real purpose, only the quiet rhythm of his own thoughts guiding him forward.
Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, Kris turned his head and noticed a forest he did not remember being there before. The trees stood tall and ancient, their trunks dark with time, their limbs laced with the earliest hints of budding green. Something about it beckoned him, an unspoken invitation. He hesitated only a moment before stepping off the road and into the hush of the woods.
As he walked beneath the canopy, the air thickened with something more than the coming of spring—it shimmered with memory. A laugh echoed between the trees, light and carefree. Kris turned sharply and saw them: two boys, no more than ten, racing through the underbrush, their sneakers kicking up leaves, their faces alight with the boundless energy of youth. One of them was him. The other—his childhood best friend, Terry. Kris’s breath caught in his throat as he watched them disappear between the trees, their laughter fading like wind through branches.
He pressed on, his steps slower now, his heart tightening with each shift of the air. More figures emerged, phantoms of his past stepping from the shadows as if they had only been waiting for him to arrive. Vividly he saw his first love and his eyes and heart were filled with the sunlight of long-gone summers. His father, standing by the old oak tree, offering words of advice he had been too young to fully understand. A gathering of friends, raising glasses in celebration, their voices a chorus of joy. Each memory appeared as vivid and real as the day it was lived, and yet, as soon as Kris reached out, they dissolved into mist.
Not all the visions were joyful. A storm rolled through the trees as he saw himself at a crossroads in life, the weight of regret pressing against his chest. A door closing behind someone he had let slip away. The silence of an empty house that had once been full of love. Shadows stretched long as he relived moments of loss, of choices made and unmade, of time slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the forest opened into a clearing. Kris stepped forward, the last echoes of memory settling like dust behind him. The air was still, the light golden and warm. For the first time since entering the forest, there were no figures waiting to greet him.
Only himself.
Only now.
Kris took a deep breath, his chest rising with the understanding that settled within him. The past was alive, yes, woven into the very fabric of who he was. But it was not where he lived. This moment, standing in the clearing, was real. And in this moment, he was not only remembering—he was creating. With every step forward, he shaped the future, crafted new memories yet to be.
The forest of memories did not hold him. It simply reminded him that he was still walking.
~Wylddane
(Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, Kris turned his head and noticed a forest he did not remember being there before. The trees stood tall and ancient, their trunks dark with time, their limbs laced with the earliest hints of budding green. Something about it beckoned him, an unspoken invitation. He hesitated only a moment before stepping off the road and into the hush of the woods.
As he walked beneath the canopy, the air thickened with something more than the coming of spring—it shimmered with memory. A laugh echoed between the trees, light and carefree. Kris turned sharply and saw them: two boys, no more than ten, racing through the underbrush, their sneakers kicking up leaves, their faces alight with the boundless energy of youth. One of them was him. The other—his childhood best friend, Terry. Kris’s breath caught in his throat as he watched them disappear between the trees, their laughter fading like wind through branches.
He pressed on, his steps slower now, his heart tightening with each shift of the air. More figures emerged, phantoms of his past stepping from the shadows as if they had only been waiting for him to arrive. Vividly he saw his first love and his eyes and heart were filled with the sunlight of long-gone summers. His father, standing by the old oak tree, offering words of advice he had been too young to fully understand. A gathering of friends, raising glasses in celebration, their voices a chorus of joy. Each memory appeared as vivid and real as the day it was lived, and yet, as soon as Kris reached out, they dissolved into mist.
Not all the visions were joyful. A storm rolled through the trees as he saw himself at a crossroads in life, the weight of regret pressing against his chest. A door closing behind someone he had let slip away. The silence of an empty house that had once been full of love. Shadows stretched long as he relived moments of loss, of choices made and unmade, of time slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the forest opened into a clearing. Kris stepped forward, the last echoes of memory settling like dust behind him. The air was still, the light golden and warm. For the first time since entering the forest, there were no figures waiting to greet him.
Only himself.
Only now.
Kris took a deep breath, his chest rising with the understanding that settled within him. The past was alive, yes, woven into the very fabric of who he was. But it was not where he lived. This moment, standing in the clearing, was real. And in this moment, he was not only remembering—he was creating. With every step forward, he shaped the future, crafted new memories yet to be.
The forest of memories did not hold him. It simply reminded him that he was still walking.
~Wylddane
(Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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