Stand here, beneath the eerily familiar boughs,
and listen to the whispers only you seem to understand.
Do you recall the echoes, or is this another fractal moment,
folding back into itself?
Each branch reaches out,
stretching to grasp what ought to be.
Yet somehow their fingers trace paths not finally forged,
but already trodden.
We turn an unseen corner
and wander roads bordered by a landscape never quite remembered.