You are here.

Here is the forest. Here is the river. Here are the farms and homes, villages and cities of mankind. Not the great cities of the past with their beautiful bare, smooth streets of concrete, their majestic buildings of steel and glass rising skyward in their perfect, straight lines -- here is where those cities died and fell, were consumed by the growing green chaos of flowers and trees and earth. Here is where history was swallowed by nature to be bound up in acorns, unfurled in oak leaves.

You are here because we are all here, trying to turn earth into food, or restarting the ancient machines of the past.

And they are there.

And there they have always been. Even when the world swarmed with cars run on gasoline, when mankind numbered in the thousand-millions, they were there in a world above, below, beside and through our own world -- the fae and the small folk and their endless thread of spidersilk that touched all, held all together with the strength of a whisper.

They are there, but if we know it at all, we barely know it, see it only in the corner of our mind's eye, a scent of lanvender at the edges of our tongue, concealed as they are there by the Veil...

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