I held my breath and pulled the trigger. When I opened my
eyes, she was still twisting among the weeds, dancing her
last, slow forest dance. I slung the rifle over my shoulder,
and unsheathed the knife. She looked at me, and there was
blood on those brown fingers clenching the vines. Half
woman, half tree, she would live as long as the sunlight
coursed through her. I severed the vines, one at a time, as
she clawed weakly at my legs. By the time I was done, so was
she.

Carrying the body of the Dryad home, I laughed. They said
that Dryads did not exist, could not exist, but I persevered
in my search and proved them all wrong. Looking back, I had
very little evidence to build upon, only myths and hunches.
I guess I am just a dreamer. A hopeless romantic.

Her arms felt like bark, and there were leaves in her hair.