Since Hara can remember, she's had the forest at her back.

She's watched it in spring when flowers budded and lush leaves canopied overhead. In summer when its shade covered her wading pool on hot evenings. In the fall when crows circled in the sky, nested in the branches. In winter when sleet clung to the bark and leaves lay frozen at her feet.

For years, she's stood at its doorstep and thought about the secrets it might keep.

Maybe, she's never crossed the threshold because she was afraid of the secrets it might tell.

The crows watch as she approaches. First light hasn't yet touched the ground, a golden halo in the treetops; her flashlight shows her the path. Dry leaves swirl in the wind, crinkling as she walks, and gnarled roots crest underfoot like sea serpents breaching the surface of water. Ahead mushrooms ooze from the tree bark, glowing in the silver morning light.

The creek runs clear and cold to the touch. She shakes her fingers dry and walks along the bank until a chainlink fence blocks her path. It's twice her height, rusty and clotted with leaves. She didn't even know it existed. She wonders what it's meant to keep out. Or keep in.

She stows the flashlight, takes off her glasses and carefully braces her hands to the fence. It's freezing cold and grimy. She's only a few feet off the ground and her arms feel like twigs about to snap. Shit. What if I can't do this?

A flurry of leaves blows up from behind her, rustling through her hair. It feels like hands at her back, pushing her forward. She squeezes her eyes shut and keeps climbing. Keep climbing, keep climbing.

The crossed chainlink at the top pinches her fingers and digs into her palms. She swings to the other side and drops to the ground, squeaking in pain as she lands on her backside. It echoes through the trees, like they're passing around something curious.

She's out of breath. Instinctively she reaches for her inhaler and closes her lips around it. Then she realizes her lungs feel fine. They feel... good.

For a moment, she sits among the trees and smiles and breathes.

The sun is creeping through the forest now, watching her as she walks. Moving too fast seems wrong, like she might rile the gentle wind into a hurricane. But she sees something up ahead, a dark lump in the leaves, something that isn't supposed to be there.

When she crouches down in front of it... it's a jacket. The tag reads, Kwon Tailors Ltd., men's medium. She pinches the sleeve and carefully lifts it up. Dirt falls from the black fabric, roots like sinew binding it to the ground.

It's his. She knows it.

She sees a pair of shoes just a few steps farther. They're sleek under a layer of dirt and moss, 15 years worth of it. Curled up at the heel is something that looks like a dead millipede. She reaches in and touches it with the tip of her finger.

The millipede suddenly unfurls and scuttles into the toe of the shoe. Hara startles. She was almost positive it was dead.

She leaves the shoes behind. She imagines Minho walking this way years ago, barefoot and without a jacket, leaving footprints she can't see. She passes a fallen tree and a metal drain swallowing the creek's rushing water. She counts the birds' nests and gopher holes and squirrel dreys. One, two, three, more. The forest speaks in rumbling tongues like thunder brewing underground.

She can almost hear voices in the trees.

Ahead is a towering old tree, lichen and creamy mushrooms sprouting from the bark. A small murder of crows are gathered around the trunk, heads bobbing like they're dancing. They take off when Hara comes too close. A few mice scatter through the leaves and into their hidden homes.

She sits gingerly in the tree's lap, face tipped up to the dark canopy and early-morning sky. She's alone with the animals and plants and slowly-rising sun, the motion of wind and spirits and other gentle, breathing things. She can still hear the voices somewhere far away, above or below or maybe all around. A part of it stays with her. Becomes her, roots in her flesh. Or maybe it's always been there.

Maybe she's never been alone at all.