There is a low, withered maple growing near my childhood home. Once, when I was young, I plucked a leaf out of curiosity. As I watched the severed end, a strange white ichor seeped out of it. I tilted my head, confused. I looked back up at the tree, thoughtful, and asked it why it had milk in it.
The creaking of its boughs and the soft whispers of its leaves were its only answer.
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