Brammelwurz and the Chronomushroom of Velimanthe

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They say Velimanthe is that part of the forest where time doesn't pass—but looks around, remains silent, and then transforms into something else. Brammelwurz had avoided this place for a long time. Not out of fear, but out of respect. But now, spurs drew him through his dreams: golden threads that settled in his thoughts like dust on old clocks. And some of these thoughts smelled of something that hadn't yet been thought. It began with small glitches. A forgotten word. A tool he never owned—but missed. The lantern he carried shone brighter, darker, as if it wanted to flicker with a memory that wasn't his. Finally, he knew: The Chronomushroom had begun to fray its way into the edge of the world. The path to Velimanthe led through mossy hollows where the birdsong sounded like it was being played backward. Tree barks bore spiral patterns, as if they were themselves lost in thought. And where the forest grew denser, the shimmering began: spores, as fine as breaths, danced in the air. They clung not to clothing, but to ideas. Thoughts aged here. Not linearly, but chaotically. An impulse from yesterday could seem today like a childhood debt. Brammelwurz entered the clearing. In the center sat a mushroom, larger than all the others—its cap crisscrossed with fine cracks that pulsed with golden light. All around, smaller plants sprouted, some almost transparent, others deep purple, as if carrying nighttime dreams. The air was still but heavy—like the silence between two sentences that were never spoken. He suddenly remembered something that hadn't happened: a conversation with a friend he'd never had—and yet it left its mark on him. The mushroom didn't let time pass. He let them pile up, penetrate, overtake himself. It was as if he were looking at his own thoughts, but from the wrong angle. A gust of wind carried spores into his lantern. They swirled within it like questions without answers, golden and heavy. "I am not here to understand," he said quietly. "I am here to remember." And with that, he stepped among the mushrooms, cautiously, with an open hand and a pounding heart. The voices of the forest swelled—not loudly, but clearly. He heard sentences he had never spoken. Wishes he had repressed and doubts he had smiled away. What if I was wrong? What if I was someone who forgot what was important? The central mushroom began to glow. A crack in its cap opened like an eye. Brammelwurz stepped closer. He knew: Now he must think what he had never finished thinking. And he did. He allowed the thought to mature, grow old, lose meaning—and thereby become gentle again. When he left Velimanthe, he wore the same cloak, the same lantern—and yet something was different. Not released. Not forgotten. But ready. The mushroom hadn't taken anything from him. It had only shown him what he had wanted to let go of too soon.