The 67 stood alone in the clearing, its twisted branches stretching out like skeletal arms, reaching toward the sky as if trying to claw at the stars. Its bark was dark, almost black, and gnarled with deep cracks that seemed to whisper when the wind passed through. The roots bulged up from the earth like ancient veins, wrapping around rocks and bones, and the air around it felt unnaturally still, like the forest held its breath. In the dead of night, the 67’s shadows twisted and swayed as if it had a life of its own, and the faintest hint of a creaking sound echoed from its trunk, as though it were murmuring in some forgotten language. No bird dared to nest in its branches, and no animal ventured too close, for those who had were never seen again