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A tree falls down in the forest. Its death is not a surprise, and one day its friends would follow it, losing their struggles to the Choking and the Hollow, but for now, they hold on; and for now, they watch as sunlight shone through the gap in the canopy, setting the stage for the dead one’s funeral. A tree funeral is a long affair, conducted by fungi and attended by woodlice, beetles and many other creatures. Tiny creatures that seem to rise, fall then disappear in an instant when the trees aren’t paying attention. Then again, most creatures are too short-lived and fast to the trees. The springtails and earthworms arrive last, feasting on what left of the tree’s corpse before it becomes one with the soil. The soil that would now makes a perfect nursery. There is a moment of stillness, as if the trees are holding their breath. Then there, emerging from the soil, the green shoots of the young ones. So young that time still feel fast to them. The trees knew that most of them won’t

Day 44, Nothing has changed as I, Sir Reginald Alexander, press ever onward through this exploration I’ve found myself in. As you know, in the year of our Lord 1897, I set forth to become the first man alive to reach the center of Antarctica. I sailed from London on the 18th of May and arrived at my destination within three months. I began my solo expedition, pressing onward into the white wilderness. That was 44 days ago, and now I fear I may never return to civilization. A bloody blizzard came out of nowhere, creating a blanket of snow and blocking any visualization of my path ahead. The wind has been howling for days, and I find myself trapped in my little tent. Rations are running low; my extremities have grown numb as frostbite has begun to set in. Yet I must continue my journey to the center and hope to see the horizon again. My compass still points north, and so I have a way. I will not turn back until I achieve my goal. Day 57, I have been walking for days, and the dead