2.The squirrel followed me the whole way...

Dear Mom, I found your house.

Post No. 2. First morning in the forest.

June Oakcrest. Thursday— first days of spring, as it turns out.

Dear mom,

I went into the forest, I said I would and I did— proper boots, fully charged phone, GPS signal on. I found a gap in the hawthorn at the bottom of the garden and stepped through. The road noise disappeared completely. In its place came the scent of rich damp soil, green moss, and cold air carrying the unmistakable feel that something was beginning.

The feeling arrived all at once, the moment I stepped through. As if the forest had a door policy, and I had just been let in.

There were two trails. One went deeper into the dark— and I genuinely felt it pull, which isn't something I usually feel—and the other caught the light. I am forty-five and not reckless. The dark one can wait.

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Mom, it's so stunning here. I wasn't prepared for how beautiful it is. The leaves are just coming in— that very specific early green that only lasts about a week before it becomes the deeper green of summer— and the sun was warm on my face and everything felt a bit unreal in the best possible way. Fragile and full of life at the same time, you know?

The wind came through a few times and it was cold enough that I was very glad I grabbed your coat on the way out. Which —funny story— I didn't exactly decide to take it. It was on the hook by the door and it sort of fell into my hands as I walked past. Practically jumped. I stood in the doorway for a moment just holding it. It's heavier than it looks, worn soft at the cuffs, and it smells of something I almost recognize— That same thing I noticed in your study yesterday, the smell I can't place. I put it on anyway. It fits almost exactly, by the way. Did you know that?

I'm choosing to interpret all of this as practical advice from the coat itself.

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Okay so, the squirrel.

I'm fairly certain it's the same one from the window—or one that's been briefed by that one— because it followed me. The entire walk. Not right behind me, more like a respectful ten feet back, moving when I moved, stopping when I stopped. At one point I turned around and we looked at each other for a solid ten seconds and I said, out loud, " I genuinely don't have anything for you, " and it tilted its head like I'd said something philosophically interesting.

I don't know what to do with this. Aren't animals supposed to run from humans? That 's the arrangement I understood us to have. Whatever alternative system you've set up here— I need you to explain to me.

The birds were everywhere too, all different songs, going at once like a very enthusiastic orchestra— layers of calls I couldn't name, conversations I couldn't follow. Do you have a bird book somewhere? I want to know what I'm hearing. I kept stopping to listen and thinking— I should know what that is. I want to know what that is.

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The oaks, though. Mom. The oaks. There are a few along the trail but the one right at the end of your garden— you can see it from the kitchen if you look past the hawthorn- stopped me completely. It's enormous and old in a way that makes you automatically lower your voice, I don't know why, you just do. I stood there with my hand on the bark for a long time. It's so deeply furrowed, rough and cold under my palm, layered like it's been keeping count of things. Every winter, every storm, every person who ever stood exactly where I was standing and put their hands exactly where I put mine. And then— I don't know how to explain this and I am going to write it down anyway— something faintly warm, from inside the bark. Just for a moment., just a suggestion of warmth, like the tree noticing my hand was there.

I am sure it was just the morning sun on the south side of the trunk..

I'm going to go back and stand there again tomorrow. It felt necessary.

Coming back through the hawthorn gap I noticed a car parked further down the road. Not at the house. Just there, engine off, nobody visible. I looked at it for a moment. By the time I was inside, it was gone. I'm probably imagining things. The forest makes everything feel significant.

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When I got back inside I found your plant journal on the table by the window— and beside it, on the shelf, a bird book. Old, well used, annotated in the margins in handwriting I didn't recognize. I put the bird book in my bag without quite deciding to.

Mom— the journal is breathtaking. The drawings are so careful and the notes about properties and uses and little histories of each plant— it reads like a field guide written by someone who is also a little bit in love with everything she's documenting. I read half of it standing up in my coat and boots because I couldn't put it down long enough to take them off. I only stopped when I realized I'd forgotten to eat since breakfast and my hands were cold and I was still wearing muddy boots in your kitchen.

Here's the thing though. There are three dried plants pressed inside with no entry written for them. And there are two plant names mentioned in the notes that don't have their own pages. I would love to complete them with you when we find you— or perhaps when you decide to reappear.

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I am going into town this afternoon for groceries—the fridge situation is optimistic at best. I 'm also honestly curious about people. Human people people, I mean. The kind who live in an actual town and have opinions about things like parking and local politics rather than following strangers through the forest with quiet intent.

I want to know if anyone in town knows you. I want to see your name land on someone's face and watch what happens.

Back before dark— I've learned my lesson on that front—

June

P.S. The squirrel sat on the fence post and watched me walk all the way back to the house, I waved. It did not wave back but did not leave either. We have an understanding, I think. I 'm just not sure what it is yet.