They called themselves the Birchwood Club—three friends bound by boots, backpacks, and a shared love of quiet places. There were no phones, no clocks—only pockets full of trail mix, wild imaginations, and the rustling hush of trees. Most days they wandered, but today they stayed still, letting the woods come to them. A chipmunk nibbled a crumb from the boy’s fingers while another approached timidly, step by careful step. High in a birch tree, a third clung to the bark, watching from above. Even a curious bird joined the meeting, as if it, too, belonged. In that dappled clearing, everything else faded, leaving just the woods and the wonder.