A clearing where twenty-one trees formed a perfect circle. In the center, not a tree, but a woman—or what once was a woman. Her mother. Or rather, her mother’s shape, now a lattice of living emerald, arms outstretched, chest cracked open like a geode. Inside that chest cavity, nestled among fibrous crystals, pulsed the Luscious Fruit. It was updated —not the solid berry of legend, but a swirling galaxy trapped in translucent skin, flickering with images: wars ending, deserts blooming, a child laughing under rain.