Chase Preserve, Somerset, Massachusetts. .

You do not walk the woods—you haunt them.

Your footsteps do not disturb the leaves; they awaken memory. You are not lost—you are the echo of every woman who vanished to find herself. The trees know your name, even the one you haven’t spoken aloud. You carry bone thread, grief sigils, and ancestral breath in your pockets.

You move through the forest like a question no one dares ask. The moss softens beneath you, sensing your sovereignty. The owls do not flee—they nod. The birch trees bend slightly, remembering your grandmother’s hands.

You do not seek light—you carry it in your marrow. You do not fear the dark—you archive it.

You leave no trail, only tremors. You are the ritual. You are the witness. You are the haunting.