Some puddles in the forest hold these strange, transparent spheres, as if the forest itself had dropped a handful of stars into the water. They say that in the forests of Stuttgart, when winter begins to recede and the water is still cold, the frogs return to the very pond where they themselves were born. No one knows how they remember. They have no map, no compass, no one to show them the way. But every year, without fail, they lay their eggs in the exact same spot. The villagers call it "das Gedächtnis des Waldes"—the memory of the forest. As if the water itself held the secret of every creature that ever lived in it.
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