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Deep in the heart of an ancient forest stood, solemn and serene, a single tree. The locals called her the Tree of Life. She was unlike the thousands of trees that surrounded her. Not because she stood the tallest, nor because her branches stretched farther than all the rest, but because there was something about her presence that could not easily be named. She was majestic. She seemed to possess a certain holiness, as though the earth itself had chosen that very place to breathe a little more deeply. She stood quietly among the others. She did not boast. She did not argue. She did not bend herself toward those who passed by and beg them to admire her. She had no need to prove her brilliance. Because she already knew it. Her beauty required no extravagant words. No poet could make her lovelier by describing her, just as no silence could make her less so. Her strength required no exhilarating tale of victory. Her richness asked for no extraordinary demonstration. Her uniqueness did not need proof. There are certain things in this world whose magnificence is diminished by explanation. One does not stand before a sunset and demand evidence of its beauty. One simply looks. One feels. And one understands. So it was with her. Does the sun lower itself to be compared with the stars? No. The sun has no reason to quarrel with the heavens. It rises, and by rising alone, floods the sky with such radiance that the stars quietly surrender themselves to morning. The sun does not proclaim its brilliance. It simply shines. Does the eagle abandon its pride to race with the sparrow? No. The eagle has nothing to prove. It opens its wings and climbs into the heavens, carried by winds the sparrow may never know. It does not descend merely to convince smaller birds that it can fly. Its flight is proof enough. And does God descend from Heaven merely to prove His power before pagan gods? No. For that which is mighty has no need to plead for recognition before that which is lesser. His presence alone would render such comparison meaningless. So too would the Tree of Life never lower herself merely to prove her worth before the other trees. She did not need their approval. She did not require their envy. She did not ask to be crowned. She simply stood. And somehow, by standing there exactly as she was, she became impossible to overlook. For she was more than worthy. She was life itself. Her roots reached deep into the earth, grasping soil that had endured storms, droughts, winters, and forgotten centuries. Beneath the surface, unseen by those who admired only her branches, those roots held tightly to the world. Perhaps that was where much of her strength truly lived. Not in what could immediately be seen, but in all that had grown quietly beneath. Every hardship had driven her deeper into the soil. Every storm had taught her how to bend without breaking. Every winter had stripped something away, and every spring had taught her how to grow again. She had known violent winds. She had known seasons without rain. She had known nights when thunder tore across the heavens and lightning split the darkness around her. Yet when morning came, she remained. Sometimes wounded. Sometimes weary. But standing. And somehow, still capable of giving. That was perhaps the most remarkable thing about her. She had endured so much, yet she had not become barren. She had suffered, yet she still offered shade. She had known storms, yet birds still found peace among her branches. She had endured hunger, yet she still grew fruit for others. The world had taken from her, and somehow she continued giving herself back to the world. She provided shelter for the birds. Within her branches they built their little homes, trusting her strength enough to place their fragile lives upon it. She cast shade for weary travellers. Those exhausted beneath the cruelty of the midday sun could rest beneath her canopy and, for a moment, breathe easily again. She grew fruit for the hungry. To those who approached with empty hands, she offered something of herself. Not because she was commanded to. Not because she expected anything in return. But because generosity had become part of her nature. Children played beneath her branches. Travellers leaned against her trunk. Birds sang above her. Creatures slept among her roots. Some came only for a moment. Some remained for years. Some never knew her name. Still, she gave. And perhaps that was the secret behind the name the villagers had given her long ago. The Tree of Life did not merely live. She made other things feel alive. There are people like that. People whose presence changes the atmosphere of a room without effort. People who carry warmth without announcing it. People who make laughter come easier. People whose kindness makes the wounded feel less ashamed of their scars. People who remind the lost that there are still roads left to walk. She was such a tree. If sadness came beneath her branches, somehow it did not feel quite as heavy. If a traveller became lost, her silhouette rising above the forest could become a landmark by which direction was found again. If someone sat beneath her long enough, listening to the wind moving softly through her leaves, perhaps for a little while the world would not seem so cruel. And still she asked for nothing. That was what made loving her so effortless. One could admire her beauty from afar, of course. Anyone could. It was impossible not to notice the way sunlight rested upon her branches in the early morning. Impossible not to see how the evening light painted her leaves in gold. Impossible not to notice the dignity with which she stood amongst the forest. But beauty alone could never explain why one might linger. There were many beautiful trees. There were taller ones. There were perhaps greener ones. There might even have been trees that blossomed more brilliantly in spring. Yet none of that mattered. Because love does not always choose according to comparison. The heart does not walk through the world carrying a ledger, carefully measuring beauty against beauty, strength against strength, virtue against virtue until it discovers the mathematically superior thing to adore. The heart simply recognizes. And once it recognizes, comparison becomes almost absurd. I could have wandered through a thousand forests and found a thousand remarkable trees. But I would still return to her. Not because she was required to be the greatest tree that ever lived. But because she was the Tree of Life. And she had somehow become dear to me. I would know the curve of her branches. I would recognize the places where storms had scarred her bark. I would know which side caught the morning light first. I would know where birds preferred to build their nests. I would recognize the particular sound the wind made when passing through her leaves. I would know the roots upon which travellers often stumbled and the quiet hollow where rainwater gathered after a storm. And the more I knew, the less perfect she would appear. Yet somehow, the more beautiful she would become. Because perfection is something admired from a distance. Love is what remains when one comes close enough to see everything. Her broken branches would not make me love her less. Her scars would not diminish her. The places where her bark had been torn away would not offend me. They would simply tell me that she had lived. That she had endured. That there were years before I arrived. Storms I had not witnessed. Winters I had not suffered beside her. Stories held quietly within rings I could never see unless the tree itself were broken open. And I would never wish to break her merely to understand her. Some mysteries deserve tenderness more than answers. So I would sit beneath her branches. I would listen. I would learn. And perhaps, over time, I would understand a little more. Not everything. Never everything. But enough to know that being near her was already a privilege. Enough to know that there are some things in life one does not possess. One simply cherishes. And perhaps love, at its finest, is much the same. Not the desire to uproot something beautiful and carry it away. Not the desire to cage it, name it, or demand that it belong only to you. But the willingness to sit beside it and say: Grow. Be what you are. Become whatever you were meant to become. And if I am fortunate enough to witness it, then that alone will be one of the great gifts of my life. For the Tree of Life was never beautiful because someone loved her. She was beautiful long before anyone noticed. She was strong long before anyone praised her strength. She was worthy long before anyone thought to tell her so. Love merely gave someone the privilege of noticing. And O, what a privilege it was. The Tree of Life O, how beautiful is the Tree of Life, How quietly she bears her might. She asks no crown, she seeks no praise, Yet turns the darkness into light. She brings joy into sorrowed hearts, And warmth where colder seasons lie. She offers shade to weary souls And lifts their weary eyes toward the sky. She gives direction to the lost, When every path appears the same. She stands among a thousand trees, Yet none could ever bear her name. She speaks in leaves, in roots, in rain, In morning dew and evening light. She bends beneath the cruelest storm, Yet rises beautiful and bright. She shelters birds beneath her arms, She feeds the hungry with her fruit. The wounded rest against her bark, While life runs quietly through her roots. And though the world may wound her still, She answers pain by giving life. Through drought and storm, through loss and cold, She stands against the endless night. No need to prove how bright she shines. No need to show the world her worth. The sun does not explain its flame; The mountains do not plead with earth. So let her stand. Let her grow. Let every season come and go. And if I am allowed to stay Somewhere beneath her gentle shade, I ask for nothing more than this: To watch her branches reach the heavens. To learn the stories in her scars. To know her through a thousand seasons. To love her exactly as she is. O, how beautiful is the Tree of Life. Not because she is without wounds. Not because no storm has touched her. But because after everything— she still gives life.

Prologue It was a cloudy Sunday afternoon. I stood by the kitchen island, messing with the new espresso machine that I bought last week. For some reason, the portafilter was refusing to twist out of the group head. I was very close to committing a hate crime toward it. There are, I imagine, more dignified ways to spend what might unknowingly be the final Sunday afternoon of one’s life. Wrestling an espresso machine was apparently going to be mine. As I was wrestling with the machine, a loud thud startled me. I looked toward the origin of the sound and saw an ugly owl stuck between the half-open window and the ledge. “What in the heck?” I walked over and pulled the owl off the window. It jumped around me for a little bit. Maybe it was saying hi. Who knows. It certainly didn’t look grateful. If anything, it looked offended that I had interrupted whatever magnificent entrance it had attempted. I noticed a scroll of some kind tied to its leg. “What—” I carefully removed it from its leg. The owl looked around, then looked at me. I looked at it. A few seconds of silence went by. There are certain moments in life when two living creatures share an understanding without words. This was not one of those moments. I had absolutely no idea what this bird wanted from me. It finally flapped its wings and flew away, leaving me alone in my kitchen with the scroll in my hands, confused. “I knew it. I’m a wizard, and I’m getting into Hogwarts.” I mumbled as I opened the scroll. “Good afternoon. I hope this letter finds you well. Please note that your death will take place exactly 24 hours from now. You will not be able to leave the premises, nor will you be able to contact anyone. Please know that your death will be absolutely painless. My condolences. From: Death.” I stood in silence. “What?” I chuckled. “That’s a very dedicated prank right there, lol.” I read it again. Then once more, slower this time, as though perhaps the words might rearrange themselves into something less inconvenient. They did not. I went to throw the letter away, but right before it reached the trash can, it dissolved in midair, like when Thanos snapped his fingers. “What in the—” I stumbled backward, hitting my heel on the bar stool. “Dang it, that hurts.” Apparently impending death did not exempt me from minor household injuries. Lovely. I moved back onto the couch. “Okay. That was pretty cool.” I got back up, searching for my phone. I grabbed it from the top of the espresso machine. I scrambled to send a text to my love. Nothing. No typical “Delivered” that I was used to. No little blue line at the top of the screen struggling to reach the end. I stared at the message for longer than I should have. It was strange how quickly one tiny missing word could make the room feel colder. “Now, okay. That’s different.” I tried calling her. Nothing. Call failed. I then tried to call another friend, and another, and another after that. Still nothing. “That’s not exactly funny anymore.” The amusement drained out of me almost instantly. There is a peculiar kind of terror in suddenly realizing that the people you love still exist somewhere beyond the walls around you, living their ordinary lives, while you have somehow been removed from them without warning. I decided to call 911. “Surely this will go through.” Sure enough, it didn’t. “Must be the reception.” A remarkably stupid explanation, considering Death had apparently just sent an owl to my house, but denial is not particularly famous for its logical consistency. I headed for the door, tripping over everything on my way. As I grabbed the doorknob, I froze. Through the mosaic glass on the door, there was utter darkness outside. Not nighttime. Not storm clouds. Not the dim gray of an overcast afternoon. Nothing. A darkness so complete that the world itself seemed to have been erased beyond the glass. I tried to jiggle the doorknob. Of course, nothing. Exactly as it had been written in the letter. I paced back to my armchair, soulless, my hands trembling. I looked outside the window. There it was. Utter darkness. My house was still my house. The furniture had not moved. The clocks still ticked. My coffee still sat unfinished. Yet everything beyond those walls had vanished. It was incredible how quickly familiar things could become frightening when you suddenly understood that they might be the last things you would ever see. A wave of anger and rage filled my spirit. I jumped out of the chair, grabbed it, and launched it at the window. Good news: my armchair remained intact. Bad news: so did the window. “Right. So this is it? This is how I will go out? Right.” I stared at the perfectly unharmed window. Twenty-four hours left to live, and apparently I had just attempted to murder one of my better pieces of furniture. I went back to my study. Everything looked exactly the same, yet so different. My fountain pen and parchment sat faithfully on my desk. The lamp was still dimmed. The pine scent was still subtle, yet noticeable. Things I had seen hundreds of times suddenly demanded my attention. The warm pool of light beneath the lamp. The faint scratch marks on the desk. The way the fountain pen rested beside the parchment as though patiently waiting for me. The soft pine fragrance I ordinarily barely noticed. Nothing had changed. Except that now everything had an ending. “Right. I suppose people typically write a farewell letter.” I picked up my pen and parchment and let my thoughts run free. The Letter To: Death Good afternoon, Mr./Mrs. Death. I hope this letter finds you well, unlike I apparently will be by sundown tomorrow. I would like to file a formal request for delay. I am unsure what department handles these matters, but considering you managed to suspend telecommunications, seal my house, erase the exterior world, and employ an owl as a courier, I am assuming this will eventually reach the appropriate desk. Monday afternoon doesn’t quite work for me, as I have preplanned a trip to the DMV to renew my tag. You know how painful it is to schedule with the DMV. Surely even Death understands that rescheduling a DMV appointment is an unreasonable burden. There must be limits to cruelty. Perhaps you accidentally sent this notice to the wrong address. Although that doesn’t seem quite likely, judging by the phone and apparently the bloody black hole outside. Anyway, back to the delay request. Saturday night would be considerably better. Even though, in reality, I should be looking at sometime after the year 2064. But whatever. This is my note, then. Although, while we are negotiating, I feel obliged to point out that twenty-four hours is atrocious notice. Employers generally provide more warning before terminating someone. You know, I’ve experienced many things, none quite as bizarre as this. I’ve always sort of thought of myself as an optimistic pessimist. Always thinking life will take a turn for the worse, people will leave, relationships will end. I learned early that expecting disappointment made disappointment easier to survive. Or at least that was what I told myself. If I expected people to leave, perhaps I could pretend it hurt less when they did. If I expected something good to end, maybe I would never be surprised by the ending. But then I found God. He has walked with me steadily and faithfully through the calming stream and roaring river, the quiet mornings and restless nights, the highest of the mountains and the lowest of the valleys. There were moments when I could feel Him beside me and moments when faith meant continuing to walk despite feeling nothing at all. There were prayers answered the way I hoped, prayers answered in ways I did not understand, and prayers whose answers I may never know in this life. I thank Him for changing me for the better. Still not perfect, but better. Much better than I once was, though admittedly the standard was not always particularly heroic. I rest peacefully knowing that I have my salvation in Christ. Though I didn’t quite expect a death notice. I thought it would be a bit more sudden... Maybe that is what frightened me most. Not death itself. The waiting. Knowing exactly how much sand remained in the hourglass and being forced to watch every grain fall. My love. I’m more concerned about her than anything else. Of all the thoughts fighting for space inside my head, hers was the one that refused to leave. She really is amazing. Like something I never thought I deserved. Sometimes I still look at her and wonder how someone like her somehow became part of my ordinary life. There are people you meet and appreciate. There are people you love. And then there are those rare people who quietly rearrange the shape of your world until you can barely remember what it looked like before them. Seems that I can’t keep that promise of time. That promise of more. That hurts more than dying. My love. If you can ever see this, please know how deeply sorry I am. That I couldn’t be there for you longer. Couldn’t love you longer. Have more ordinary afternoons. Have more romantic nights. I am sorry for every future memory I promised you without realizing how fragile promises about time really are. I am sorry for every morning I assumed would come simply because all the others had. I am sorry for every time I said “later” as though later were something I owned. You’re so much more than my lover, my best friend. No. You complete me. You make me whole. You are part of my being. Somewhere along the way, loving you stopped feeling like something I did and became something that simply existed inside me. You became woven into the way I imagined tomorrow. When I thought about places I wanted to see, I imagined seeing them with you. When I thought about quiet nights, I imagined you somewhere nearby. When I thought about growing older, somehow you were always there. I’m so deeply sorry for this. I love you so much. I love you so, so much. More than I have probably ever managed to explain correctly. More than all the jokes and teasing and ordinary conversations ever managed to reveal. You are my forever. My baby, I love you. Still yours. Even now. Especially now. Mr./Mrs. Death, I don’t know if you had a childhood or a regular human life. But anyway. My parents are absolutely fantastic. They weren’t perfect. They still piss me off regularly, but they did the absolute best they could when it came to me. I’m forever grateful. Funny how the things that annoy you about people become strangely precious when you are confronted with the possibility of never experiencing them again. I would happily tolerate another hundred arguments. Another hundred unwanted pieces of advice. Another hundred moments of pretending not to listen while secretly remembering every word. They gave me what they could. They worried about me. They sacrificed for me in ways I probably still don’t completely understand. And suddenly twenty-four hours feels insultingly short for everything I still owe them. I’m... I’m not ready yet. There. I said it. For all the philosophy, all the faith, all the jokes about Death’s administrative procedures— I am not ready. I still need to hang out with my friends... Segers, you know, amazing and wonderful people. They have been amazing and all. There’s also Matt, a great man whom I’m grateful for. There are still conversations we haven’t had. Stupid jokes we haven’t made. Dinners we haven’t eaten. Stories that haven’t happened yet. There should be more nights where nobody realizes how late it has gotten because everyone is too busy talking. More completely ordinary memories that feel insignificant while they happen and priceless once they are gone. I still have so many more things I want to do. So much more I’m looking forward to. And strangely, sitting here now, the things I want are not particularly grand. I am not begging for fame. I am not begging for unimaginable wealth. I am not asking you to make my name immortal. I just want more life. Please. Give me a few more years. Or even months. I will take weeks. Days. If that’s too much to ask, just give me a proper opportunity to say goodbye. To those I love. To those I care about. Surely that isn’t too unreasonable. Please. Let me see my love once more. Let me kiss her once more. Tell her how much I love her once more. Tell her that I’m sorry for anything stupid that I said or did. Tell her how much I love her— please. Let me memorize her face knowing that I am memorizing it. Let me hear her voice once more without rushing the conversation. Let me hold her knowing that this time I should pay attention to everything—the warmth, the breathing, the ridiculous little things that ordinarily disappear into routine. Please, let me see my baby once more. Please. I... I really thought I wouldn’t fear death. You know. I thought that I wouldn’t care. I thought faith would make me fearless. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe believing that something comes after this does not mean I have to stop loving what is here. God, I was wrong. What if no one remembers me? What if they don’t care? What if my name becomes something people hesitate before saying because it hurts too much? What if photographs slowly become the only evidence that I was ever standing beside them? What if years pass, and they remember me less clearly? Please... Not yet. Do you ever feel? Anything? Pain? Joy? Anything? Does anyone— Did anyone ever feel ready? You have watched everyone eventually come to you. Kings. Children. Cowards. Heroes. People surrounded by families. People completely alone. Surely one of them must have asked you the same question. Was anyone ready? You have no idea what it means to be missed, do you? Must be depressing. Though I’d trade anything not to have to be missed. Because being missed means leaving someone behind. And perhaps that is what I am actually afraid of. Not being dead. Leaving. Please. Not yet. One more ordinary day. One more dinner. One more hug. One more kiss. One more word. One more look. One more completely insignificant afternoon where absolutely nothing important happens. One more drive where I complain about traffic. One more meal where someone steals food from my plate. One more conversation that goes nowhere. One more morning where I wake up irritated because the alarm went off too early. I never realized how beautiful ordinary life was until you threatened to take it from me. Please— please... I don’t want immortality. Enough is good for me. I don’t need forever. Forever sounds exhausting anyway. Please— enough time to do all those things— please. Enough time to love people better than I have. Enough time to stop treating tomorrow like a guarantee. Enough time to say the things I keep assuming I will eventually get around to saying. Please consider this letter. Yours... Isolde Volkenskaya. Epilogue I was lost in my thoughts. Sitting at my desk. Fearing. Crying. For a long time, I did nothing. The room had become unbearably quiet. There was no dramatic music. No ticking clock suddenly amplified by fate. Just the faint hum of the house and my own breathing occasionally breaking apart whenever another wave of fear came over me. I didn’t know how to send this thing out. So, I went back into the kitchen. I then saw the opening in the window from that owl. A very small gap that I couldn’t make larger. Apparently Death could create an impenetrable supernatural barrier around my house but could not account for poor window insulation. So I tossed the letter out. And as if today hadn’t been hard enough, the letter got stuck on the edge. “NO!” Of course. Of course my final message to everyone I loved was going to die stuck in a window frame. I tried to force the letter out with my fingers. And then I heard the sound of wings flapping outside. I looked up. And there it was again. That bloody ugly owl. Looking at me through the window. “What do you want?” I yelled at it. It looked at me. Same expression as before. Somehow judgmental despite being a bird. And then it pulled my letter off the window and disappeared into the darkness. I stood in awe. For several seconds, I simply stared through the tiny opening. The darkness swallowed the owl almost immediately. Along with every word I had finally found the courage to write. As I turned around from the window, a scroll appeared on my counter. Of course I recognized it. It was exactly the same as the first one I received. “Oh gosh... please.” Suddenly I would have preferred the owl to come back and insult me personally. I picked it up. My hands trembling. It read: “I didn’t receive your response. I mean, I did, since it was addressed to me. But you didn’t write the letter to me. You wrote it to everyone else in your life. I must apologize. My owl seemed to have gotten lost and delivered the letter to the wrong address. So no, you will not die tomorrow. But let this experience be a reminder of why you want to live & live out your best life. — Death” “?” I stood in silence for a bit. “???” I read it again. Then again. Not because I didn’t understand the words. Because somehow my mind refused to accept them. “He did not just say that.” I cried out loud. Laughing. Still mad, but more relieved than anything else. My knees weakened beneath me, and I leaned against the counter. I laughed until the laugh turned into crying, then cried until that somehow became laughter again. Twenty-four hours ago—or rather, twenty minutes ago, though emotionally it felt closer to twenty years —I had treated tomorrow like an ordinary possession. Now Death had handed it back to me. “Not like I can file a complaint, I guess.” I looked toward the darkness outside. Slowly, almost reluctantly, it began to change. At first, there was only the faintest hint of gray. Then shapes returned. The outline of the yard. The street. The neighboring houses. The sky. The world had not changed. But God, it looked beautiful. A while later, after the emotions had settled, I sat down in my armchair. The same armchair I had attempted to launch through the window earlier. It had survived Death considerably better than I had. I sat there quietly for a long time. My phone buzzed on the table. A completely ordinary notification. Normally I might have ignored it. This time I picked up the phone almost immediately. The signal bars had returned. The world was reachable again. Her name was still there. My parents were still there. Segers was still there. Matt was still there. Everyone was still there. And for one strange, impossible Sunday afternoon, I had been given the privilege of learning what their absence would feel like without actually having to lose them. I thought about the letter. About everything I had written when I believed there would be no tomorrow. How easily the truth had poured out when time became scarce. How ridiculous it suddenly seemed that I had ever needed Death standing at my door before saying those things. Maybe that was the cruel joke. Death had not taught me anything I didn’t already know. He had merely taken away tomorrow long enough for me to understand today. I sank deeper into the chair. The espresso machine sat quietly across the room. I looked at it. It looked at me. Well, technically it didn’t. It’s an espresso machine. But after the owl, I was prepared to entertain possibilities. I laughed to myself. Then I looked toward the window, toward the ordinary afternoon that had somehow been returned to me. “Thanks, Death.” I paused. “Still hate your owl, though."

“And into the forest I go. To lose my mind & find my soul!” — John Muir Ever since I was really young, I knew that I had always preferred the forest over the beach. Something about that peace & quiet really draws me in. Walking past the trees ancient as time, past the birds singing their melodies, past the beetles humming the sound of spring. It’s fascinating, elegant, ancient, majestic. There is something about a forest that feels untouched by the urgency of the world outside it, as though time moves differently beneath its canopy. The forest is kind; it provides everything you need. The forest is accepting; it doesn’t care about where you came from or where you will go. The forest is forgiving; it watches over you, even if you mess up. It asks very little of you. You need not impress it. You need not explain yourself to it. You simply enter, and it allows you to be. Finally, I had the opportunity to go see the forest. I was overjoyed by that. I packed my bag with everything that I thought I might need. I brought food, water, a compass, and a bag full of other stuff that I thought would help me thrive in the forest. I read posts online, watched YouTube videos, and asked ChatGPT for answers. I packed myself with knowledge. Every question I could think of, I tried to answer before I ever set foot beneath those trees. I told myself what to expect; I thought that I was ready for it. Perhaps that was the arrogance of preparation: the more I learned, the more I convinced myself there would be nothing left capable of surprising me. The night before the trip, I was so excited that I could barely sleep. My body lay in bed, but my mind had already wandered somewhere among the pines. The morning of the trip, I packed up my car and got on the road. As I got closer, I started seeing a line of green at the edge of the sky. At first, it was barely distinguishable from the horizon. Then, mile by mile, individual shapes began rising from that distant green. The forest was no longer this idea that only existed in my mind or on a screen. It became a reality. It became something that existed in front of my eyes, something that I could actually interact with. Finally, I reached the edge of the forest. She stood there. Quiet, elegant, majestic. She didn’t beg for attention; she didn’t have to show off. She simply stood there, allowing people to admire her elegance, her beauty. There was confidence in that stillness. She did not need to convince anyone that she was beautiful. She simply was. As I walked closer, I started to see the beauty of the tree line. The morning dew upon the pines. The mist sat above her like a thin veil. Thousands of narrow trunks disappeared behind one another. The treetops formed a continuous canopy, a seemingly endless sea of green rising and falling against the morning sky. Then came the scent. The pine resin created a lovely scent that was carried out by the gentle wind. The breeze brought forth something sharp, yet smooth; something woody, yet clean. Something sweet & earthy. It was unlike smelling pine from a candle, a piece of wood, or something bottled and labeled. This scent was alive. It belonged here. It carried the soil, the bark, the morning moisture, and the trees themselves. I simply stood in awe, absorbing the different notes of the forest. It was a weird feeling at that moment. See, I thought that I would be so excited that I would want to rush in there and take it all in. But at that moment, my soul was filled with something else. Something heavier, something solemn, something holy. For the first time since I began planning the journey, I wasn't thinking about what I wanted from the forest. I was simply grateful to be standing before it. Instead of running into the forest, I walked slowly past the tree line. Like a believer on their way to worship in Jerusalem. I crossed the tree line almost reverently. Now the forest was significantly different. The forest floor was padded with pine needles, forming a rust-colored carpet beneath me. Fallen cones lay everywhere, like treasures that weren’t hidden. The outside world was muted. Instead, there was the sound of pine needles whispering in the wind, birds having private conversations, and small animals chasing after one another. Everything outside the forest seemed suddenly distant, as though the trees had closed a door behind me. I slowly walked down the path, the needles brushing the bottom of my boots, the scent sneaking into my nose. It was stronger than it had been on the outside, yet it remained smooth & gentle, never aggressive. Every few steps seemed to reveal something that had been invisible from beyond the tree line—a patch of moss clinging to an old trunk, sunlight caught in droplets of dew, the sudden flutter of wings somewhere above me. The forest was not one beautiful thing. It was thousands of small beautiful things existing at once. In that moment, I realized that everything I thought I knew about her was nothing—absolutely nothing—compared with what she actually was. The scent was only mesmerizing once I breathed it into my nose. The sound was only addicting once I heard it with my own ears. The forest was only real once I truly experienced it. It’s not until I was in the forest that I understood how little of it could be understood from the outside. You could study its shape from a distance. You could memorize its species, trace its trails on maps, read descriptions written by people who had walked there before you. But none of those things could reproduce the feeling of actually standing beneath its canopy. Knowledge had taught me about the forest. Presence was beginning to teach me the forest itself. I continued down the path, distant shadows of deer disappearing behind trees, eagles flying high above the canopy, fish splashing in the lake. I let myself be free, and took it all in. Somewhere down the path, I reached a beautiful tree. I walked around the tree a few times, simply admiring the strength and resilience of her. Its bark was rough beneath my fingertips, marked by years I could see but would never completely know. I realized at that moment, people always want to talk about her beauty, her appearance, the shade she brings, but rarely do they talk about her resilience, her history, her strength. Every storm that she endured, every drought she suffered, every year, every month, every day. Yet she remained standing. Yet she remained strong. Yet she remained beautiful. And suddenly, beauty seemed like such an incomplete word for her. The rings inside of her represented more than just the years she had lived, but also a symbol of endurance. A recognition that she made it after everything she had gone through. Some rings might have been wide, born from years of sunlight and abundance. Others might have been narrow, formed during years when survival itself demanded everything she had. Yet every one of them belonged to the same tree. None made her less whole. Together, they were the history hidden beneath her bark. A tear fell from my eye. I couldn’t help but wonder about everything that she had gone through to become who she was today. How many times must she survive a storm before she is considered strong? How many difficult seasons had passed without anyone stopping long enough to notice that she was still standing? I gained a new level of love & admiration for the forest. Not for her appearance, but for recognizing the things that made the forest the forest it was today. As I got closer to the pine tree and laid my hands on the bark, I could almost feel the everlasting life that she produced. Powerful. Lively. Energizing. The kind of life that can give life to anything around her. Birds found shelter among her branches. Small creatures moved around her roots. Her fallen needles became part of the earth beneath her. Even without knowing it, simply by existing, she gave something of herself to the life around her. Moments later, I said goodbye to the tree and continued on my journey, not because the tree was not good enough, but because there was still so much more of the forest left to discover. As time passed, the sun had finally risen high enough that its light penetrated the treetops, breaking through the needles and illuminating parts of the forest. Its radiance was so warm, so gorgeous. It cast shifting patches of light and shadow on the forest floor. Dust, mist, and moisture floated through the beams, briefly visible before disappearing again into the shade. Not only did it illuminate the forest, it also illuminated parts of my heart as I bathed in its radiance. I hadn't realized until then how warm the forest could feel. A few hours later, I started to hear distant thunder, rumbling somewhere far away. An unprepared traveler might panic, but not me. I studied forests. I knew what to do. I brought a raincoat, for heaven’s sake. I put on my raincoat, calm & collected, of course. I almost found the situation amusing. Rain? I had prepared for rain. Of all the things this forest could throw at me, surely this was something I understood. A few minutes later, the rain came crashing down. It was fine at first. The forest had enough trees that provided some shelter. Not for long, though. The canopy became saturated. Water began slipping from the needles in heavy drops. The soft whisper above me became a roar. The trails darkened, the earth softened, and the forest I had been peacefully wandering through only minutes earlier seemed to change its temperament entirely. The forest finally showed me her temper, the not-so-beautiful & elegant side of her. So I scrambled for shelter. I ran down the northwestern trail that led me down to the typically calm stream. Well, it’s apparently not very calm during the rain. It became aggressive, making it hard to keep my balance. The gentle water I had expected had swollen into something faster, colder, and far less interested in accommodating me. I struggled to cross the stream, fighting not to fall. I finally made it. I kept going down the northwestern trail. But little did I know that the trail became incredibly slippery during the rain. The ground became very soft, the pine needles clinging to me as I stumbled onward. Everything I had admired earlier—the earth, the water, the trees, the pine needles—was still there. They simply weren't behaving the way I wanted them to anymore. After hours of struggle, I finally got to a small covering to escape from the rain for a moment. I was drenched, covered in mud, pine needles, and God knows what else tangled through my hair. For a while, I simply sat there listening to the rain strike the forest around me. I thought that I was all prepared. I thought that I had studied forests enough to know what to expect. I was proven wrong. I learned so much more in those few hours about this forest than I ever could have online. I learned that I had about 20 minutes to clear the stream once rain started coming down. I learned that I had to avoid the northwestern trail during a storm. And that was my mistake. I thought that I could apply the same set of principles, rules, and “formula” to every forest. But they are all different. The things I had studied weren't useless. They had gotten me this far. But knowing forests, I finally understood, was not the same thing as knowing this forest. I had to learn her behavior. I had to learn her temper. I had to learn everything specifically about her. I had to learn what the distant thunder meant here. I had to learn how quickly her streams rose, which paths became dangerous, where shelter could be found, and what signs she gave before everything changed. And that is a gift to me. The opportunity to do so is wonderful, and it’s such a privilege. There was something strangely beautiful about realizing that I would never finish learning her. Once I dried off, I started to reflect on the rain. It certainly wasn’t the prettiest part of the forest, but it’s still a part of it. The storm had frightened me, exhausted me, covered me in mud, and humbled whatever confidence I had carried beneath the trees. But it had also shown me something real. It was something I would learn to adapt to, because I don’t just love part of the forest, or sections of the forest. No. I love the whole thing. Rainbows and sunshine. Trees & rivers. Rain & storms as well. I could not claim to love the warmth of the sunlight and then resent the clouds for occasionally covering it. I could not love the peaceful stream while refusing to acknowledge that sometimes it would rise. I could not admire the strength of the trees while wishing away the storms that had helped make them strong. As I got lost in my thoughts, I apparently had lost my way too. I stopped. Looked behind me. Then ahead. Nothing. No familiar trail. No marker. No indication of which direction I had come from. Just pine after pine after pine, stretching endlessly in every direction. I reached for my compass. Then I stopped. For the first time since entering the forest, I couldn't remember why finding the way out seemed so important. I was lost. Completely, undeniably, hopelessly lost. And God help me— I smiled. I actually smiled. Maybe the storm had finally knocked something loose inside my head. Maybe I had inhaled too much pine. Maybe somewhere between the stream, the rain, the mud, and talking to trees, I had finally gone completely mad. Because a reasonable person would want to leave. A reasonable person would look at the compass. A reasonable person would find the trail, retrace their steps, return to the car, drive home, shower the mud from their skin, pull the pine needles from their hair, and tell everyone about the beautiful forest they once visited. But the thought of calling this somewhere I had visited suddenly felt unbearable. Visited? No. No, no, no. You visit museums. You visit cities. You visit places you intend to leave. I don't want to leave. I looked around me again. At the ridiculous trees I had become so attached to. At the mud that had nearly sent me flat on my face. At that temperamental stream that had tried its very best to kill me only hours earlier. At the pine needles stuck to my clothes and the dirt beneath my fingernails. And I loved all of it. God, I loved all of it. The beautiful parts. The difficult parts. The quiet parts. The parts that frightened me. The parts I understood. The parts I hadn't even begun to understand. I wanted another morning beneath these trees. Then another. And another. I wanted to know what the forest smelled like in winter. I wanted to see where the deer went when snow covered the trails. I wanted to learn which birds returned in spring. I wanted to know which trees caught the first light of summer and which leaves surrendered first to autumn. I wanted to learn every trail until my feet knew them without asking my mind. I wanted to recognize the sound of her rain before the first drop ever touched me. I wanted to know her storms well enough that thunder no longer frightened me. I wanted to sit beside that stupid stream after another storm and laugh because this time—this time—I knew better than to cross it. I wanted years. God, that's what terrified me. Not another afternoon. Not another trip. Years. I wanted to watch this forest change. I wanted to change with it. And suddenly the thought came so naturally that I almost laughed again: I could stay here. No. That's ridiculous. I should find the trail. I should leave. I should— I looked at the compass still sitting uselessly in my hand. I put it back into my bag. I could stay here. I could actually stay here. What would be so terrible about that? I have food. Well—not enough. Fine. Details. I have water. Probably. Shelter? I'll figure it out. This is insane. I know. I don't care. I… I will stay here. I will. I will stay here. I will never leave again. Yes. Yes, that's it. I'll never leave. Are there other forests? Of course. Are there prettier forests? Bigger forests? Forests with taller trees, clearer lakes, easier trails, gentler storms? Probably. I'm sure there are. I don't want them. Let someone else have them. I don't want another forest. I want this one. Give me these trees. Give me this ridiculous stream. Give me the mud. Give me the rain. Give me the sunlight breaking through these particular branches. Give me the scent that I now recognize before I even realize I'm breathing it. Give me the peaceful mornings and the violent afternoons. Give me the paths I know and the ones that will still manage to surprise me. Give me the storms I haven't learned yet. Give me another hundred years and I will happily spend every one of them discovering another corner of this place. And if a hundred years isn't enough— Fine. Give me another hundred. I don't care anymore. Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being a forest I wanted to explore. It became the forest I wanted to return to. Then it became the forest I didn't want to leave. And now— God. Now it feels like home. So yes. I am lost. Hopelessly. Laughably. Completely. I have lost the trail. I have lost whatever good sense told me that eventually I was supposed to turn around. I have lost whatever part of myself believed that I could walk into this place, admire it, and walk back out unchanged. Maybe John Muir was right. Maybe this was always the point. Maybe I had to lose my mind here. Because standing there—mud on my clothes, pine needles in my hair, my compass buried uselessly inside my bag, smiling like an absolute idiot at a forest that had thoroughly defeated every expectation I brought into it—I finally understood something. I hadn't come all this way just to find a forest. Somewhere between the first tree and the last storm, between her sunlight and her rain, between everything beautiful about her and everything difficult about her, I had found something I didn't even know I had been searching for. So let me be lost. Let the trail disappear. Let the compass spin. Let it rain again. Let me wander until I forget there was ever somewhere else I was supposed to be. I don't need to find my way out. Because somewhere in this forest— after thoroughly, wonderfully, hopelessly losing my mind— I have found my soul. Epilogue The rain eventually stopped. Somewhere along the northwestern trail, half-buried in the mud, lay a compass. Its glass was scratched. Its face was streaked with rainwater and soil, but the needle still worked perfectly. It trembled for a moment before settling faithfully toward north. Beside it were footprints. One set. Deep at first, pressed heavily into the softened earth. Then lighter as they continued away from the trail, disappearing between the pines. They did not circle back. They did not hesitate. They did not lead toward the road. They led deeper into the forest. The evening wind moved gently through the canopy, carrying with it that familiar scent of pine—sharp, woody, sweet, earthy. The compass remained where it had fallen. Still pointing north. Still perfectly capable of showing the way home. But the footsteps continued in another direction.

Recently, I read something online. It’s a theory called the “last meeting theory.” It basically says that regardless of how intimate or close you once were to someone, once you finish that “course,” the universe will make sure that you’ll never meet again. I hate that theory. With my entire being. And not in the way that I believe it and hate that it might happen. No. I hate it because it’s false, irresponsible, and cowardly. How convenient is that, right? Having a supernatural explanation for why you aren’t close to someone anymore. How convenient is it to not have to take responsibility for your own actions? You don’t have to ask yourself whether you could have called. You don’t have to wonder whether you should have apologized. You don’t have to admit that maybe pride kept you silent, fear kept you distant, or stubbornness kept you from saying the thing you desperately wanted to say. Instead, you can simply shrug your shoulders, look toward the stars, and say, “Well, I suppose the universe decided.” How wonderfully convenient. The universe becomes the perfect scapegoat because it cannot argue back. It cannot tell you, “No, actually, you were the one who stopped answering.” It cannot remind you that there was a phone in your hand, their name was still in your contacts, and you chose not to press the button. It cannot point out all the opportunities that existed between two people before silence eventually became distance. I’m not naive enough to think that every relationship works out. Of course not. Situations change, feelings change, people change. Sometimes there’s a bad fallout; sometimes the end is for the better. Some relationships absolutely should end. Some people hurt each other repeatedly. Some relationships become unhealthy, abusive, manipulative, or simply incompatible. Walking away can sometimes be the most loving thing you can do for yourself and even for the other person. I am not arguing that every relationship must be resurrected simply because it once mattered. Nor am I arguing that love requires you to tolerate mistreatment. It does not. But I refuse to believe that those things happen because the “coursework” between two people has been completed. For one, the people you meet are never coursework. Can you, at times, learn a lesson or two from knowing them? Of course! But that doesn’t and shouldn’t turn another human being into a “bad lesson” or a “teaching moment,” even when it might feel close to it. A person is not an assignment handed to you by some cosmic professor. They did not enter your life simply so you could develop character, learn boundaries, discover your worth, or complete some invisible spiritual curriculum before graduating into the next relationship. They were a person. A complicated, imperfect, emotional human being with memories you were never present for, fears they may never have explained, dreams you may never fully understand, and a life that continues beyond whatever role they played in yours. We should always look at one another as fellow human beings, just like us. Obviously, some of them aren’t perfect, but neither are we. And perhaps that is something worth remembering before we confidently label another human being “the lesson I needed.” Imagine how dehumanizing that sounds when reversed. Imagine discovering that someone you genuinely loved, laughed with, trusted, cried besides, and shared pieces of your life with now describes your entire existence in their life as nothing more than “a lesson.” Maybe you were difficult. Maybe they were difficult. Maybe both of you were. Maybe you hurt each other. Maybe you loved each other deeply and still failed one another. Human relationships are messy precisely because human beings are messy. That doesn’t make the relationship meaningless. When we make a habit of viewing relationships as lessons or coursework, we subconsciously undermine their value as human beings. Please stop referring to each other as lessons. Look at them as people. You can learn from someone without reducing them to what they taught you. You can become wiser because of a relationship without pretending that wisdom was the sole purpose of the relationship. You can say, “Knowing that person changed me,” without saying, “That person existed to change me.” Those are very different things. And now to the part I hate most. The idea of the universe “making sure that you never meet again.” No. The universe doesn’t do that. Your lack of communication does that. Especially in today’s day and age. You expect me to believe that if you really wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to get in touch with someone? Come on. That’s just absolutely absurd. We live in an age where I can send a message across the planet in seconds. We have phone numbers, social media, email, mutual friends, countless ways of finding people whom previous generations might genuinely have lost forever. Yet somehow we have romanticized silence into destiny. No. Sometimes silence is just silence. It’s your fear of reaching out that stopped you from texting. It’s your fear of rejection that stopped you from reaching out. It’s your cowardice that stops you from meeting each other. Maybe you typed the message and deleted it. Maybe you opened their contact a hundred times. Maybe you watched their name appear online and hoped they would somehow know you were thinking about them. Maybe you told yourself that if they wanted you in their life, they would reach out first. And maybe, somewhere on the other side of that screen, they were thinking exactly the same thing. Two people missing one another while both patiently waiting for destiny to do the job that courage was supposed to do. Stop blaming the universe while you comfortably sit back in your armchair, guiltlessly, because it’s always someone else’s fault. Shame. Lazy. Cowards. Harsh? Perhaps. But I think we have become far too comfortable dressing fear up as wisdom. “If it’s meant to be, it will be.” Maybe. But sometimes what is “meant to be” still requires you to get off the bloody chair and do something. Love has always required action. Friendship requires maintenance. Family requires forgiveness. Trust requires effort. Reconciliation requires humility. None of these things survive indefinitely on good intentions alone. If you love someone, be brave and pursue them. That doesn’t mean to be aggressive. Be yourself and be respectful. And understand that pursuing someone does not mean refusing to accept “no.” Courage is reaching out honestly. Respect is accepting the answer honestly. There is dignity in both. If you miss your ex—and AND!!! if whatever caused your breakup has been resolved—then reach out. Talk things through. It doesn’t mean ignoring the previous problems, but be mature and loving. Do not rewrite history because you are lonely. Do not pretend the relationship was perfect simply because you miss the good moments. Ask yourself whether anything has actually changed. Have you changed? Have they changed? Has the problem been solved, or have enough months simply passed that the pain has become nostalgic? There is a difference. But if the problem truly has been resolved, if both people have grown, and if love remains beneath all that history, then I see no honor in refusing to speak simply because pride insists that someone else should go first. If you had a fallout with a friend or family member and you want the relationship back, reach out to them. Be kind, patient, and loving. Talk through your difficulties and mend the relationship. Say the uncomfortable thing. “I miss you.” “I was wrong.” “You hurt me.” “I still care about you.” “Can we talk?” Those sentences require more bravery than pretending you have achieved some enlightened detachment from someone you still think about every night. Now, some of you might say, “I don’t want to.” And that is totally fine. Actually, I respect that answer. If you don’t want the relationship anymore, then don’t pursue it. If your life is healthier without that person, let it remain that way. If peace came only after distance, protect that peace. If you have genuinely forgiven them and moved forward, continue walking. But let that be the reason. Not the fact that the universe was stopping you. Say, “I chose not to go back.” Say, “We became different people.” Say, “I still care about them, but I know we are healthier apart.” Say, “I was afraid.” Say, “I waited too long.” Say whatever is true. Just don’t hand your own choices over to the stars because admitting that you had a choice is uncomfortable. And perhaps sometimes you will reach out and discover that you were too late. They may have moved on. They may not answer. They may forgive you without wanting you back in their life. They may simply say no. That hurts. But at least then the story ended because two human beings made a decision—not because you spent twenty years wondering what might have happened if one of you had possessed five minutes of courage. I think that is what bothers me most about the “last meeting theory.” It turns passivity into poetry. It makes giving up sound profound. It takes one of the most painfully human experiences—the drifting apart of two people who once mattered enormously to each other—and makes it sound as though some invisible force closed the door while both people stood helplessly on opposite sides. Sometimes that happens. Life moves people across countries. Time changes circumstances. Death itself eventually separates us. There are endings beyond our control. But not every ending is destiny. Some doors remain closed simply because neither person reached for the handle. And if there is still kindness between you— if there is still forgiveness— if the problem can be repaired— if you still love them— if you still miss them— then perhaps stop asking whether the universe wants you to meet again. Ask yourself whether you do. And if the answer is yes, be brave enough to find out whether they do too. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe you rebuild something beautiful. Maybe you finally receive the closure you needed. Maybe you discover that the relationship really is finished. At least then you will know. Because I would rather live with an honest answer than spend my life romanticizing a question I was too frightened to ask. People are not coursework. Relationships are not cosmic assignments. Silence is not always destiny. And fear should not be mistaken for fate. Call people while you still can. Apologize while they can still hear you. Forgive when forgiveness is deserved. Tell people you miss them. Tell people you love them. And when a relationship truly must end, have enough respect for the person—and yourself—to call it what it actually was. A choice. A circumstance. A failure. A necessary goodbye. Anything but some lazy excuse about the universe completing its coursework. Be better. Fill this world with love, not hatred. There is already enough distance between people. We do not need to invent the universe itself as another reason not to cross it.