The moon is high tonight, and the air is thick with whispers—some from the living, most from the dead. I stood at the edge of the old grove today, where the trees still remember my name. They rustled in the wind like the voices of my fallen, accusing, forgiving, or perhaps just indifferent. I hummed a hymn, one I haven’t dared to sing since the fall. The notes tasted like ash, but I couldn’t stop. The dead don’t judge my voice, at least.