The logged square is an exhibit that does not need a sign.

Sun. Dryness. Wind that has too much room. You kneel and look for the pale threads Thorn calls under-song—the quiet trade under living trees. You have heard the name even if you have not yet put your nose in the soil. You find dust. You find a beetle with nowhere to be shy. You do not find a city.

Mira’s face does a mill-kid calculation. “We took the trees. We took the shade. We took the trade underneath without meaning to.”

A browse line still rings the edge, deer reaching in from the living wood to snack on whatever dared to sprout. The square cannot start again by itself. Mutualism broken: fungi gone, seedlings eaten, soil baking.

You could start small—acorns, a trench of damp, a promise to keep feet and goats off one rectangle.

Or you could leave it empty on purpose and walk it into the mill yard as evidence: this is a horn-hunt in slow motion. This is what taking looks like when it is trees instead of a white deer.

A hawk turns over the gap, using the extra sky. Even the hawk looks like it knows the square is a mistake.