You don’t see it at first. You see the rusted pegs, the frayed ropes, the fire pit choked with cold ash. But if you stand still long enough—if you let your human arrogance dissolve like sugar in rain—you realize the plants are watching .

But every abandoned campsite tells the same story: eventually, the plants win.

There is a certain kind of silence found only at an . It’s not empty, though. It’s full. Full of the vision of the plants .

The vision of the plants is not a threat. It’s an invitation. Let the grogue do its work. Let the moss have its say.