Day 2,246

It is autumn and the land is dying.

It does not go gently.

The woods howl and scream, begging for one more day, one more sip of sunlight or blood - whichever will stave off winter's grip best. We do not leave the house when they scream, we bolt the doors and shutter the windows. We pray our food will last us and know that if one of us dies the rest will stand a better chance at surviving.

Sometimes the woods will uproot and head into town to search for the warmth of flesh and blood beings. To them we are immortals and something in our bodies must hold the key to breaking winter's death sleep. They do not understand how we are different, only knowing that we are and that somehow we still live.

They have empathy enough to cry out their sincere apologies when they disembowel us and drench their roots with our blood but not enough empathy to look for a better way out. Sooner or later they will realise this is hopeless - they must realise this before the whole town dies to them and their carnage spreads to the unknowing ones.

By the time of the first snows, the woods have ether retreated or departed in the town itself. Though they may be dead for the winter, the danger is still there and their roots still thirst for our warmth. We do not come close to them until the spring thaw, when we lead them back to the rest of the woods where they feast on sunlight and soil.

They feast and we begin the toil or replenishing our stores for the coming winter.