Something within me is changing. My skin feels tight, stretched over an unfamiliar frame. I find scratches on my arms at dawn, but no blood flows. The pain is dull and distant as if my body has forgotten its human frailty.

I feel it most when the moon is high – a pull, a yearning in my veins, urging me to delve deeper into the labyrinth of ancient trees. I resist, yet each night, I wake closer to the forest's heart, my footprints lost among the gnarled roots.

Dreams haunt me, filled with visions of towering figures, their whispers like leaves rustling in a forgotten language. I wake, gasping, my hands no longer my own – long, slender, almost branch-like.

The transformation is a creeping terror, a puzzle I cannot solve. My reflection becomes a stranger, eyes hollow with an unspeakable truth.

Then, the moon unveils its face on the fateful night, casting a silvery glow over my twisted form. In that fleeting light, the truth shatters my denial. I am not just amidst the bone trees – I am becoming one.

My screams, once human, now echo a timbered groan as the ancient, malevolent forest consumes me.

I am the forest, and the forest is me – an eternal sentinel in a world where time has lost its meaning.

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