I didn’t work today.

I reached my old home today. There was no resistance as I claimed it, the trees greeted me as if I were an old friend. Which I suppose is true enough, at one point in time I was going to inherit this grove from my mother, as my mother inherited from her own. I was born here, and had things gone differently, I would have died here as well.

It’s weird, walking through my childhood home. I can see all the trees that I use to know, most of them now charred husks feeding those living. I can see the husk of my old house, all but destroyed in the fire. I can see the old trees that managed to survive the fire, growing twisted and gnarled in the process, as if scars from a battle almost forgotten. I can see the bedroom where my father would tell me bedtime stories when I wasn’t able to sleep, now exposed to the world from a collapsed wall.

I can’t see the first tree I managed to grow, they were consumed in the fire. I can’t see the old toys I had all but discarded as I grew older. I can’t see the old hiding spots I would use when I wanted to get out of chores. I can’t see my mother’s face anymore.

I guess some part of me was hoping that my mother had survived, after all my father did and my mother always seemed to be just as strong as him. I thought to myself that if I reached my old home she would be there waiting for me, as if nothing had changed. Logically I knew it was impossible, she was nowhere to be seen when my father came to after the fire. Most mana based creatures don’t leave corpses like I will. Never mind that I would have received word about her being alive by now if she was. But somewhere deep down I was hoping that she was still here.

I spent my time sitting in this grove and conversing with the trees, feeding them my mana all the while. They can’t comprehend language but thoughts, emotions, memories, and ideas are all easy to communicate. It’s something I used to do as a child to practice, I never found it as interesting as actual plant manipulation but doing it now feels nostalgic. Like a bitter happiness over what once was.

Anyway, Good Night Diary.