The forest is quiet—except for the crunch of snow beneath your boots and the soft rustle of branches swaying in the wind. Echo walks beside you, alert, senses sharp as ever. Yet, something about this place makes her slower, almost thoughtful.

“This land…” she murmurs, voice low, reverent. “It’s… older than anyone alive.”

You glance at her. “It feels sacred.”

She stops abruptly, eyes scanning the trees, and crouches. “There.”

A tall tree, bark scarred in jagged patterns, stands isolated in a small clearing. Echo reaches out, running her fingers over the marks. Her jaw tightens, and for the first time today, her usual stoic mask falters.

“I… used to come here,” she whispers. “When I was small. My mother… my family…” Her hand trembles slightly. “They carved these marks for me. To remember who I was.”

You kneel beside her. “What do they mean?”

“They were… a promise,” Echo admits. “That no matter how far I wandered, or what I became, I’d always have a place to return to. A reminder that I belonged somewhere.”

Her eyes glisten in the filtered sunlight, rare vulnerability slipping through. She leans her forehead against the rough bark. “I haven’t felt that in a long time.”

You put a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. “You still belong. Even if you’ve wandered farther than you ever expected.”

Echo exhales, closing her eyes. For a moment, she allows herself to remember—small laughs, lessons learned under the open sky, the feeling of safety she hasn’t touched in years.