The first thing I noticed upon waking was the vine wrapped around my wrist. It had grown overnight, tendrils curling like fingers in search of warmth. My first thought was to tear it away, to rid myself of this inexplicable invasion, but something in its gentle grip gave me pause. It did not strangle, nor did it hold with force—it merely clung, as though it had always been there, waiting.

I rose from my bed and found the floor no longer the wooden planks I had always known, but instead a thick carpet of moss, cool and damp beneath my feet. The air was heavy with the scent of earth after rain, the walls pulsed as if alive. Leaves sprouted from cracks in the ceiling, and somewhere in the shadows, unseen roots slithered, anchoring themselves into the corners of my room. I was not startled. A deep part of me had always expected this transformation, as though the world had simply taken a step forward while I remained still.

I dressed carefully, unthreading the vine from my wrist but not severing it. It followed me as I moved, creeping along my forearm, extending toward my fingers, searching. When I opened the door, the hallway had vanished. In its place stood a forest, stretching endlessly, swallowing the corridors of my past life. Trees with gnarled, whispering trunks leaned in, their leaves murmuring secrets I could not yet understand. The sky above was not the sky I remembered, but a dense canopy of twisting branches, interwoven so thickly that only slivers of light bled through, dappling my skin in shifting patterns of shadow and gold.

I walked forward. There was no other choice. My footsteps made no sound against the damp earth, and the silence pressed in, thick and sentient. I felt watched, not with malice but with patience. The way an ancient oak watches the seasons change, indifferent yet aware. The trees had seen lifetimes rise and crumble, had witnessed men build their monuments only to have them reclaimed by roots and vines. I was no different. I was merely another thing passing through.

The vine on my arm grew tighter as I walked, pulsing with something I could only call longing. A need to be known. I stopped beneath the tallest tree I could find, its bark like cracked leather, its branches reaching toward the unseen heavens, and I placed my palm against its trunk. The moment my skin met wood, I understood.

I was not separate from this place. I had never been. The walls I had called home were merely borrowed, the structure nothing more than a brief defiance against nature’s patient reclamation. Even now, I could feel the roots beneath my feet shifting, making room, accepting me. The vine encircling my wrist no longer sought to hold me prisoner. It was welcoming me back.

And so, I let it grow. I let it spread across my body, twining around my ribs, creeping up my neck. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of damp leaves, rich soil, and the inevitable return to where I had always belonged.