The new forest didn't grow like the old one. The trunks bent toward one another as if conferring, roots crossed like knotted fingers, and every leaf carried a faint shimmer of gold that caught the morning light. The survivors had begun to call it the Breathing Grove because when the wind passed through, the whole place exhaled in rhythm with their hearts.
Zza rose early and walked through the still air. Her silk trailed behind her in thin lines, brushing dew from the grass. Each droplet vibrated when she passed, small ripples spreading until they met other ripples. She stopped to watch them overlap. The pattern was too precise to be random.
"Three short. One long. Repeat," she whispered.
Behind her, a Scarab approached, heavy-footed. "The wind?"
She shook her head. "Wind doesn't count in fours."
She lifted her claws and traced the rhythm again, eyes narrowing. It wasn't sound she felt; it was pulse. The forest was tapping out a message.
She ran back to camp.
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