[Mei-Chan]

Trees stretch their dark branches upwards like hundreds of dark fingers scraping against the sky, barely lit by the last dying lights of dusk. Vines hang like snakes beneath their tendrilesque canopy, moss clinging to the bark of their knobbly trunks and fog swirling over their raised roots. The ground is dry and crackly; riddled with rocks and dirt clumps just waiting to be tripped over or stumbled upon by an unsuspecting fool. Patches of thorny bushes proliferate, and nailed to a single tree which they seem to surround is but a single note. It flutters in the wind, yellow-white and crackling in its old age, with faded ink marring its surface. An owl hoots distantly as the final lights die down and leave the woods bathed in moonlight.