You thank Thorn of the hollow and then you hurry, because hurrying feels like doing something.

The ferns think otherwise.

A desire-path—your shortcut, bright with crushed stems—dies in a bramble that has no hallway in it. Thorns write a small, rude essay on your sleeves. You are not bleeding like a ballad. You are stuck like a sheep.

“Lesson,” Thorn says, arriving without crash, cutting you free with a hooked knife meant for vines, not people. “Animals use corridors. People invent scars and call them paths. The Pale One does not take this foolishness. Neither should you.”

You are humbled in a way that stings more than the thorns. Mira tries not to laugh and fails a little, which is fair.

Thorn points you back toward slower knowledge: the browse line, if you can stand to look at chewed futures, or the hollow, if you can stand to arrive without being a hero.

Your heartbeat climbs down from its tree.