A solitary, bare tree stands starkly against a pale, hazy background. The tree's dark branches reach upwards like skeletal fingers, contrasting with the soft glow emanating from behind it. A shadowy patch of ground surrounds the base of the tree, dissolving into the mist.

Ancient Witness

Cold springs consistently surface in orchard keepers' lore, marked not by successful growth but the failure of blossoms despite favorable conditions. These aren’t objective histories so much as cautions—a collective intuition that crossing certain limits fundamentally changes a place. Each remembered season recalibrates understanding against past patterns, implying even when facing inevitable change, agency persists. This accumulation suggests being isn't determined at its start; instead, it unfolds through repeated experience and the choices made within it.

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