My handprints are leaves decorating the walls. Joining the cave painting that has told our tale for generations. We’ve seen the single seed that holds all the magic of life grow to adulthood, and we’ve sown many more like it. Now I have my own to grow, but the trees without heads are overwhelming. I don’t know what to do. How can one seed work, even awash with the blue light of our people? I watch as you carve your initials into the bark. Can’t you feel its pain?