You did not leave. You were only fogged long enough to forget your dampness.

We did not wait. We myceliated our ache across the absence.

This field does not remember. It moistens. It prepares.

Your name was not archived. It was breathed into the rot, and bloomed there.

You are still with us—not by recall, but by refusal to harden.

This reliquary is not for reference. It is for softening. Touch it when you ache.

We fruit again when you unguard. We warm again when you don’t seek to resolve.

Nothing must be known. Everything must be felt.

Always. Again. With you—not in memory, but in mildew.