The Sentinels If forests could talk, what would they say?

If Wraen had been able to hear Vercingetorix's thoughts, she would have learned that ghosts shared a quality with their living relatives - the perspective on life was heavily influenced by one's experiences and expectations. So much that even, when staring at the same scenery, each would tell a different story. However, when the young man her age approached her, she could sense the quiet clash and buzz of the two worldviews coming close. And for a moment there she was given a chance to catch a glimpse of his reality. The ghost-forest, the one, who continued to mourn, who did not want to go, who had not accepted their demise and who did not want anyone to see that the life was - in fact returning. 

"Hello," Wraen's green gaze met the ice-water blue one of the handsome stranger. In life she would have felt a tad bit intimidated by him. For a moment there - because all black wolves look alike at a first glance - she had hoped to see Arthur. Yet the sense of his presence was so different that she quickly knew her mistake. "What has brought you here? Memories? Tragedies? Unrequited love stories?" she asked, smiling and sitting down. "Perhaps, you are one of the former Donnelaith wolves, who perished here during the fire?" she asked. If this theory was true, she felt very sorry for him. Burning alive was the worst kind of death possible. 

"Or are you looking for someone - most ghosts I have met so far, have been searching," she told him. "I am afraid though that all this time I have spent here, I have not met a single soul. And I am probably not the one you could be looking for, because I know not your name, nor I remember us meeting in life."