He found it at the edge of the hollow, where the path thins and the trees begin to lean in closer, as if listening. It rested half in moss, half in leaf litter, round and full as though it had grown there rather than been made. Small gourds clustered at its crown, bound together with curling vines, their colours dulled by shade. When he reached for it, something in the undergrowth shifted—not away, but deeper, as though making space. He carried it home, though he could not later say why. The strap settled easily over his shoulder, familiar in a way that made him uneasy. That evening, he set it by the door. By morning, it was heavier. Inside lay things he had not placed there: a handful of acorns still damp with soil, a length of root tangled with fine thread, a smooth stone warm as if it had held sunlight long after dusk. Each day it offered something different, never quite the same, always just enough to feel intentional. He stopped questioning it when the seasons turned. The hollow had always taken its due, in one way or another. This felt like an agreement. He kept to the paths that were given, and the bag kept its watch—gathering, holding, returning what the forest decided should not be lost.
