There is a shell lost in the misbegotten forest where trees grow like weeds, intertwined, but tall and strong. The shadows are thick and plentiful, hiding the deadly beauty within. Rivers and streams that weave its way through it carry life and death in its emerald hues. This forest thrives only in stories that are no longer told.
However, the lost shell continues to thrive, silently, day after day. Warmed by the sun, cooled by the moon, and sheltered by the trees. Not a soul in the misbegotten forest knew what was inside. It sat motionless, to where one might wager it was nothing more than a rock, and before long the souls gave up on whether it would ever hatch.
The lost shell, stunned by the beauty it is surrounded by, was terrified to taint the misbegotten forest, so it keeps its secret. Inside, waiting to hatch, is nothingness; empty darkness just swirling around. It pondered its purpose, as the seasons changed, ashamed. It does not bring life, nor death. It doesn't provide food or shelter.
Anger rose within, but the shell could not crack. It grew resentful of nature and beauty, which keeps it from hatching, for it wanted to prove it is just as lovely. Overtime, it eventually just became part of the forest, never knowing its purpose.
