Seasons come and seasons go, but the trees have eyes. They watch. They know.
When you did what you did and buried the bones, you thought you were safe. You thought you were alone.
When you lied, when you stole, someone kept track. Someone recorded the red and the black.
One night when you raise that glass for a toast, the hand clinking back will be a mad ghost.
Beware every day, every step, every child, for one day the books must be reconciled.