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There was once a forest, grand and seemingly endless, which covered almost all of this land. Most of it is long gone now, but little pockets of it still survive. In those little pockets, those little woods which were once lost amongst the horde of trees, some of the forest’s oldest inhabitants still survive, too.

If you have ever taken a walk through the woods and felt as if something is watching you; heard the leaves rustle behind you and felt that there was definitely something there – something which, of course, is not there when you turn to look – then you have wandered into one of those pockets.

They were once friends of ours. They protected us, helped us. Granted us wishes in exchange for a share of a meagre supper. That ended when we turned our backs on them.

The spirits of the trees do not love us. They do not protect us. They do not want us. They tolerate us, just barely, because they are waiting, and they know that they can wait longer than we can.

One day, when we are gone, a seemingly endless forest will cover this land once more. The dryads will not celebrate our passing. They won’t even remember us.

© Kari Fay

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