The roots that would not sleep

I came to Evergreen when the air was thick with pine resin and song. The ground was soft beneath my touch, rich and red, and the scent of rain lingered like a promise. Evergreen called to me quietly, not with the roar of cities or the hum of machines, but with something older. It was a place that wanted to endure. I felt that hunger, and I stayed.

Before the name was spoken, this land belonged to silence. The forest ruled everything, and the wind spoke in a language of leaves. I rested beneath the pines, feeling their roots stretch and twist like slow-moving veins. When the first settlers arrived, the trees watched them carefully. They cut and built, carving out a town from the wilderness, but the forest never truly surrendered. Even now, I can taste its persistence beneath the roads and rooftops.

Evergreen grew along the ridge like a patient dream. Its people worked the soil and tended their crops, trusting the land to remember them. I fed on their rhythm, the slow and steady faith of those who built something meant to last. The air tasted of woodsmoke, iron tools, and the sweetness of peaches ripening in the sun.

But the world beyond Evergreen did not always show mercy. Storms came, fires came, and the town burned more than once. I remember the crackle of timber and the cries of rebuilding. I feasted on their defiance. Every time the flames devoured what they had made, the people gathered what was left and began again. That flavor of resilience is rare, and I savored it.

As the years turned, trains began to sing across the land. The whistle echoed through the pine hills, and Evergreen stirred with new life. I felt the hum of progress mixing with the stillness of the trees. The town learned to balance the two, never rushing, never forgetting. The forest receded, but its breath still lingers in every corner.

I still rest here from time to time, hidden among the roots that reach deeper than memory. Evergreen lives up to its name. It does not fade or crumble; it simply bends and grows again. The Wayfinder feeds on such places, the ones that refuse to die.

Beneath the quiet streets, the land still hums. The trees still remember. And when I close my eyes, I can hear them whisper to me: We are still here.

I always answer: So am I.