Maybe DNA is just the bootloader, the body the generator, and the soul pure signal—power or information using us as jars, while consciousness is only the interface to a transmission we can’t yet grasp.
The Myrroweave drapes the high canopy like frost spun into lace, faintly aglow as it ferries a quiet charge through its living threads. Now and then, a bird brushes it—sparking like tinder in the fog—and a dust of spores drifts down, as if the forest itself were exhaling secrets.