Sorrow is not always loud. Sometimes it appears quietly at the edge of the path, heavy with rain, memory, and the ache of what has been lost. It does not come only to harm. At times, Sorrow asks to be witnessed before healing can begin. 

The air grows cool, and the sound of rain reaches you before the rain itself. It falls in thin silver threads, though the sky above is still and dark.

Ahead, standing ankle-deep in a shallow pool, is a doe unlike any creature of the living wood. Her body is draped in wet moss, pale flowers, and trailing vines that hang from her like mourning veils. Branchlike antlers rise from her head, bare and delicate, each twig beaded with water. She does not flee when she sees you.

She lowers her head, and for a moment, the pool beneath her hooves reflects not your faces, but things almost remembered: an empty chair, a hand letting go, a door that never opened again.

The doe exhales softly.

The rain grows heavier.