21 March, Laos
Rain season began yesterday. The trees weep resin faster now—black tears pooling in their scars. Found an agarwood older than my father today. Its bark was split by lightning years ago, the wound now a galaxy of dark resin. I pressed my palm to it; the wood was warm, like a living thing. I’ll return in a week. Harvest too soon, and the resin is bitter. Wait too long, and the mold claims it. Patience is the first ritual.
- Maly
