Beneath the soil, where the sun’s reach fades and silence hums, I feel the pulse of my kin. Through my roots, I whisper in threads of fungi, passing what I can—carbon, water, quiet reassurances—to those in need. When I was young, the elders fed me, their wisdom woven into the sugars they sent. Now, I return the favor, sensing the thirst of a sapling, the hunger of a fallen sister. We are not alone; we are a forest, a web of breath and sustenance, bound by the silent promise to hold each other upright.