The living, breathing surroundings constrict the space. Life that encircles, closes in, breathes down the back of my neck. I am like a memory that cannot rise. Defenseless, exposed on all sides. And you, my home—you are a toy, a scrap, a hope. You have ceased to be a refuge from this space that breathes my very soul like air. You are too fragile to withstand this inevitable approach. Your beauty does not save me—this wealth of field flowers, forests, lakes. All of it only makes the threat more stark. Behind the flowers—darkness, a wall. The wall does not breathe with wind; it breathes with the expectation of my step—for any step I take is a mistake to the wall. I see no path, no light, no way out. The night shadows of my childhood have returned—or perhaps they never left; I simply stopped assigning them meaning at some point. And then I remembered. How shadows beyond the window became monsters, how the room filled with menace when the world fell asleep, my panic feeding on the silence. That the feeling of danger does not always come from outside—sometimes it grows from your own memory, from the darkness you carry within. You are so dense, so small, so blue. I understood: you are a child waking from a nightmare, realizing that shadows do not disappear even when you open your eyes. You are vulnerability that cannot be protected, because the threat has no face. It simply is. All around. Behind the flowers. Beyond the window. Inside. Wait… I am my own home. And the Forest—it remembers everything. The Forest is watching. #3