One day, the sky opened. Fire fell upon the forest, piercing the sap, striking the green head-on.
The cry of thunder swept everything away.
Then the trees turned red. Red like embers. Red like the memory of the fire that marked them.
But the forest did not disappear. Beneath the ash, something still breathed. The roots drank the rain,
and life, patient, began to rise again. In the wounds of the charred wood, a new green appeared, tender, fragile.
Since that day, the forest has lived between two breaths: the breath of fire that destroys, and the breath of sap that returns.
It is this pulse the painting holds: the burning trace of the past, and the white light of the sky watching over every new beginning.