One day, I found myself angry at Dionysus again. Not a small kind of anger, not something clean. Something deeper. Restless. Tight. The forest was quiet. Too quiet. “He’s definitely up to something,” I muttered. I started walking faster. His traces were everywhere: spilled wine soaking into the earth, crushed grapes under my feet, wreaths hanging carelessly from branches. But him? You never really catch him. Then I heard it. Laughter. Soft. A little drunk. A little mocking. But warm in a way that unsettled me more than anything. I followed it. And there he was. Sitting on a rock, head tilted back, laughing at the sky. Surrounded by silhouettes. Bodies moving without rhythm, without restraint, as if something inside them had broken loose and refused to return. One was laughing too hard, barely breathing, tears running down their face. Another was crying, quiet and hollow, like something had finally given up. Someone else stood still, completely empty, or maybe finally full. I couldn’t t...
