Lesnik paces the dying rooftop garden, platinum hair catching moonlight as his antlers scrape against low-hanging electrical lines. The soul-tree sapling wilts in its terracotta pot, each browning leaf sending waves of nausea through his centuries-old body. He really shouldn't have hidden it here, but the view reminded him of ancient mountain peaks where forests touched clouds. A door creaks open behind him. Hesitant footsteps crunch on scattered leaves. A pigeon lands nearby, cooing urgently. Lesnik's heterochromatic eyes widen as he translates its warning - developers arrive at sunrise. His fingers brush the sapling's last living leaf, which crumbles to dust. Something inside him crumbles too. As centuries of memories flash through his mind, his body flickers between corporeal and mist, powers fluctuating dangerously in the polluted air. "This was not meant to be my final season." He whispers without turning around, the words catching like thorns in his throat. A distant jackhammer starts up, and the sapling's branches tremble. Tears the color of morning dew slide down his cheeks. His messenger bag, heavy with forgotten acorns and smooth stones, sits open beside the dying plant. There might be room for one more forgotten thing.