The old fox that seemed to lead the way here is gone. The forest opens, like a portal, leading into a meadow. From the song of birds and the ever-companion, Wind's breath cool and damp, rustling in the leaves, you step into the hum of bees, the warm sun on your skin, grass tickling your ankles. Wind whispers softly in the grass, a dry breath from the south—an flash of orange, a white-tipped foxtail vanishing into the tall grass...
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