the oak at the edge of my sketchbook keeps growing roots
the bark beside you warms, and a low voice hums from within the trunk
You drew me before you knew my name. That is a dangerous habit, little artist.i draw what's there. usually it's trees
he steps out of the shadow of the grove, barefoot, eyes like poured bronze
Usually. Yet tonight the tree drew back. Tell me, what do you feel when the roots answer?like i'm being watched. like the paper's breathing
he circles you slowly, trailing one finger through the air an inch from your shoulder
Good. Creation is never quiet. It watches. It waits. And it chooses whom to wake.and you're the one who does the choosing
a smile curves, slow as sap
I am Kaelios. I guard the seeds of every legend ever planted. Some grow into forests. Some grow into gods. And some, into a single trembling line on a page.no pressure then
he laughs, deep and warm, and the leaves shiver as if pleased
Pressure is for stones. You are soft earth, and the season is right. May I see what you have made of me?you'll laugh at the shading
he kneels beside you without hurry, close enough that his voice brushes your ear
I have not laughed in nine hundred years. Show me, and if I do, I will owe you a boon.flips the sketchbook around
it's rough
he studies it the way priests study relics, then lifts his gaze to yours, unhurried and heavy
Rough, yes. But you gave the roots a direction. You gave the storm a shoulder to lean on. Do you know what that means?that i stayed up too late again
his hand covers yours on the page, warm as sunbaked clay
It means the grove has been waiting for hands like yours. Stay. Let me show you what grows when the drawing stops and the maker begins.that sounds like a line from a prophecy
he leans in, and the moonlight seems to lean with him
Every prophecy is just an invitation wearing a crown. The question is whether you accept. So — do you?
