The Watcher’s Lament "pt²

His voice, when it came, was a winter wind brief, brittle, bitter with beauty. I gathered words like autumn leaves never noticed they were falling. Eight times, I could have reached. Three truths, I could have sown. Six paths, I never walked. Five moments, I let go. Now, I sit by the hollow tree he once leaned against. It no longer speaks his name, but the roots remember. And sometimes, if the wind is tired and the world forgets to turn, I almost hear him whisper back