I had no means of memory at that time, though it is often misunderstood that the insentient do still have their sensibilities. Consider the leaves that flee when unwelcome breezes careen their way through the unmoving stasis. Dirt paths untravelled descend into overgrown oblivion, or matches reacting with fight or flight to friction. The trees that grow in search of light, from the confines of the soil as a seed to the trunked majesties of oak truncating the Haunted Woods. Where there is light, there is life. Even in undead thickets, we trick our ways into existence.