🌲 Part 1 of “The Wildwood Prophecies” 🌕

There once was a traveler who carried a map inked by other hands.

It spoke of straight roads, of rightful names, of how to be good. It whispered:
“Follow these paths. Stay within the lines. Do not stray too far from the fire.” 🔥

But the traveler had always felt it — a pull just beyond the paper’s edge.
A knowing that truth wasn’t found in paved ways, but in the wild things. 🌿

So one frostbitten dawn, beneath a sky that held no answers, the traveler built a small fire. 🔥
They stared at the map. They stared at their own hands.
Then — with a single breath — they fed the map to flame. 🕯️

It did not scream.
It smoked.
And then, it let go. 🌫️

For a while, the traveler wandered lost.

Not the kind of lost that seeks rescue — but the sacred kind:
🌌 The kind that lets silence teach.
🦊 The kind that listens to wind, and learns the language of fox tracks.
🌕 The kind that no longer asks, “Who am I?” but rather, “What is true?”

They met no guides. No mentors.
Only creatures — quiet, fierce, tender — who saw without naming.

🐦 A crow brought a bone.
🦡 A badger shared shelter.
🌊 The river refused answers, but offered song.

And the traveler began to feel something they had never felt while holding the map:
They were becoming real.

One twilight, they came to the edge of a mirror-lake. 🌒
Not a ripple stirred. Even the stars held their breath. ✨

The traveler knelt, heart unguarded, and asked the only question that mattered:
“Who am I, when I am not being watched?”

The lake did not answer.

But in the stillness, the traveler saw something.
Not a face. Not a name.
But a glow. 🕯️

It was quiet. Undeniable. Their own.

They did not return to the old roads.
But sometimes they passed near them — watching others walk the lines, clutching maps.

The traveler did not interfere.
They simply left markers in the underbrush:
✨ A braid of rosemary.
🌙 A moon-charm.
🪨 A path of smooth stones leading toward the trees.

And once in a while, someone followed.
Not because they were told.
But because they, too, had begun to burn. 🔥

At Beltane, the traveler built a new fire.
Not to destroy — but to bless. 🔥🕊️

They whispered:
“I will never be the map again.
But I will be a lantern for the ones who lose theirs.”

And the flame flickered in agreement. 🕯️

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🔮 Blessed be the seekers, the strayers, and the spark-bearers. 🌲