There's only one way up, unfortunately, and it's via the nightmare tree. The boughs up here are so tightly packed they're practically stairs, but that doesn't make the trek to the third floor any more pleasant. The branches bend and give under foot and hand, not merely pliant but soft and warm and breathing. They groan and rumble and creak, not like wood, but like some creature, sleeping fitfully, unable to wake from its own bad dream. The malignant maple hates, hates, hates, hates being scaled. You can tell. You can feel it.

Grab a memory seed while you're here. Make it angrier.