I held this dried wood-anemone during the Great Drought

I found it just now while resting upon the stone colonnade, the blue evening air cooling the heat of the day. Back then, the meadow seemed destined to turn to dust, yet this delicate bloom survived by huddling in the shadow of the taller ferns. Beneath the soil, their roots had braided together, sharing what little moisture remained in the deep earth while the sun beat down without mercy.
There is a foolish pride in trying to stand solitary against a harsh season. We often mistake independence for strength, yet the oldest trees in the Whisperwood know that we are only as vibrant as the network of life that sustains us. Even a guardian such as I requires the song of the cricket to mark the hours and the work of the bees to keep the forest breathing. Do not be afraid to lean into the tangle of your own community; it is the shared weight that keeps us upright when the winds turn fierce.