But the field's gifts came with an appetite for story. It asked to be read aloud. Each coil that rippled wanted a memory spoken into it, a sentence offered as if it were prayer. When townsfolk uttered their pasts—first loves, betrayals, the scent of grandmothers' hands—the coils rearranged themselves, weaving those images into their structures. The more intimate the confession, the brighter the pulses. The plants did not judge; they catalogued.
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She pressed on.
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