The rain hit the tin roof like gravel. It was a Tuesday. I remember because we were supposed to go to church. We didn't.

The house was full. Not with people. With noise. The static of the radio. The hiss of the kettle. The heavy, wet breathing of the trees outside. My husband, Thomas, stood by the window. He didn't look at me. He looked at the mud.

"Go," he said.

"I can't."

"You must."

I looked at his hands. They were shaking. Not from the cold. From something else. Something old. He had been in the service. Not the army. The other kind. The kind that cleans up after the guns stop. He came home with clean clothes and dirty eyes.

I had packed my bag. Just a small one. A change of clothes. A photo of us. Before. Before the war. Before the silence.

I walked to the door. The handle was cold. Iron. It bit my palm. I opened it.

The world was gray. A thick, wet gray. The road was a ribbon of black sludge cutting through the white pine forest. I stepped out. The air tasted of rust and pine needles.

Thomas didn't follow. I heard the latch click. Soft. Final.

I started to walk. My boots sank into the mud. One inch. Two. The earth held me. It wanted to keep me. I pulled free. I kept walking.

The forest closed in. The trees were tall. Their branches were bare. They looked like fingers. Reaching. Grasping.

I walked for an hour. Two. The sun didn't come out. The light was flat. Dead.

I reached a clearing. There was a stream. It ran fast. Angry. The water was brown. It roared over the stones.

I sat on a rock. My legs were tired. My mind was loud.

*Why?*

I asked the stream.

The stream didn't answer. It just flowed.

I thought about the dinner party. Last night. The friends. The wine. The laughter. They talked about their promotions. Their cars. Their children. They looked at me and saw a statue. A decoration.

*You are free,* I told myself. *You are finally free.*

But I didn't feel free. I felt hollow.

I stood up. I walked to the edge of the water. I looked down.

I saw myself.

But it wasn't me.

It was a woman with no face. A ghost. A shadow.

I blinked. The image was gone. Just water. Just mud.

I was confused. Was it the rain? The stress?

I kept walking. The path got steeper. The trees got thicker. The air got colder.

I heard a sound.

A hum. Low. Deep. Like a cello string being pulled too tight.

It came from the trees.

I stopped. I listened.

The hum got louder. It vibrated in my teeth. In my bones.

I turned to run.

I couldn't.

My legs were locked. The mud had turned to stone. Or maybe it was my will. I didn't know.

The trees began to move.

Not swaying. Moving. Walking.

The bark peeled back. Roots writhed. Branches snapped like bones.

They were coming for me.

I screamed. But no sound came out.

A root wrapped around my ankle. It pulled. I fell.

I hit the ground. The mud was cold. It seeped into my clothes.

The trees surrounded me. A circle of wood and leaf.

I looked at my hands. They were turning brown. The skin was hardening. The nails were cracking.

Panic. Pure, white panic.

I tried to pull free. I kicked. I clawed.

The root tightened.

I thought of Thomas.

I thought of his shaking hands.

I thought of the photo in my bag.

*I am leaving you,* I wanted to say. *I am leaving this life. I am leaving you.*

But I wasn't leaving.

I was becoming.

The hum in the trees got higher. It was a song. A lullaby.

I remembered my mother. She used to sing. When I was small. When the world was simple.

The pain was immense. It burned in my joints. In my spine.

I closed my eyes.

I let go.

I stopped fighting.

The root loosened.

I opened my eyes.

The trees were still.

The rain had stopped.

A single beam of sunlight broke through the canopy. It hit the water in the stream. It sparkled. Gold.

I stood up.

My hands were normal. Soft. Human.

But something had changed.

I looked at the trees. They were just trees. Pine. Oak. Maple.

But I could hear them.

Not the hum. Their thoughts.

They were slow. Patient. They remembered the ice. The fire. The axe.

They did not hate me.

They accepted me.

I walked back to the road.

It was easy. The mud didn't hold me. The wind didn't bite.

I found my bag. It was on the ground. The photo was soaked.

I picked it up. I looked at the picture.

Thomas and me. Smiling. Young.

I put the photo back in the bag. I didn't tear it. I didn't keep it.

I walked to the edge of the forest.

I saw a car. Thomas's car.

The engine was running. The headlights were on.

He was sitting in the driver's seat. He wasn't looking at the road. He was looking at me.

His face was blank.

I walked to the car.

The door was unlocked.

I got in.

The heat hit me. The smell of gasoline and old wool.

Thomas looked at me.

"Where were you?" he asked.

His voice was flat. Dead.

"I was walking," I said.

"Come home."

I looked at him. I looked at his hands. They were steady now.

I thought about the forest. The roots. The song.

I thought about the freedom I had sought.

I had found it.

But it was not what I expected.

Freedom was not running away.

Freedom was staying.

Freedom was knowing what you were.

I put my hand on the dashboard. The plastic was warm.

"I can't go home," I said.

Thomas frowned. "What?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not ready."

He stared at me. Confused. Scared.

"Ready for what?"

I didn't answer.

I opened the door. I got out.

I walked back to the trees.

The forest swallowed me.

The rain started again.

I stood in the center of the clearing.

The trees closed in.

The hum began.

I didn't run.

I closed my eyes.

I listened.

The song was beautiful.

It was the song of the earth.

It was the song of time.

It was the song of being.

I was part of it.

I was finally free.

I was finally lost.

The rain fell.

The trees grew.

I remained.

The story is over.

The rain is still falling.

The trees are still growing.

I am still here.

The mud is cold.

The sun is high.

The song is loud.

I am free.

I am home.

The end.