You strange story from childhood whose origins I know not— I remember you said we should be guardians of the woods of crisis wrought. So long ago, I can’t recall if the story’s birth was true but thinking back, above else all I was given the wherewithal to become a statue. A wounded woman, arms severed stumbles through an empty night. Her life almost untethered with a mind that weathered, through the quiet she would recite: “I am stone, I cannot bleed.” Power in the whisperer. She could walk with no hurried speed but as she spoke there wasn’t need, her mind was there to help her.