I wandered into a glen where the air was damp with rain and the earth was carpeted in moss. The stones of an old ruin peeked through, softened by years of green growth. I traced my hand over the velvet textures, feeling centuries of stillness. Back at the dye pots, I tried to capture that hush—the depth of woodland green, the flecks of brown earth, the shifting tones of shaded light. Moss is a skein born of forests and time, carrying the mystery of the wild into your stitches.