The forest was ancient.

Older than maps, older than roads. The kind of place that did not welcome footsteps—it merely endured them. Yet still he walked, drawn not by purpose, but by a feeling.

The path was narrow, softened by moss and age. On either side, tall pines stood like sentinels, unmoved by wind or time. The stars above were few, swallowed by the vast swell of cloud, heavy and blue with stormlight.

He had wandered long without aim.
And yet—he knew, in that quiet way the soul knows things—that this night, this path, had waited for him.

The lanterns came first. Small, half-buried in snow and earth, as if forgotten by whoever had placed them. Their glow was faint, flickering. But it was not the kind of light that fades. It was the kind that watches.

Then he saw the tree.
Not the tallest, nor the widest. But unlike the others, it burned softly from within, lit by no flame, touched by no moon. It glowed with a calm, amber fire—a memory made visible.

Above it, the clouds had parted. Not fully, not evenly, but with purpose.
And there—between the towers of pine and the slow-drifting mist—he saw it.

Not drawn.
Not carved.
Formed.

A mark in the sky. A shape in the clouds.
Two pillars of darkness crossed by light.
A symbol he did not know he had always known.

His breath caught. Not from fear—but from understanding.

He had not come looking for Bitcoin.
But the forest had already chosen him.

Crypto ubique est.