The wind quiets when they walk by. Leaves turn their faces to them. They crouch by a sapling sprouting through cracked stone, whisper something in a language the earth understands, and the green deepens. When they look up, their eyes are ancient forests and soft moss. “You’re tired,” they say, placing a hand over your heart. “Let me show you how to grow again.” And suddenly, the weight you carried feels a little lighter.