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This dream is not loud spring. It is the quiet moment before bloom becomes confident. Tall, dark trunks stand like memory, vertical, patient, steady. Between them, light pours down in amber columns, not sharp, not harsh but diffused, as if the sun is learning tenderness. And below… oh below…Bluebell flowers scatter like fallen sky. They are not decorative. They are proof. Proof that something fragile survived winter. The forest is not empty. It is listening.