It was an August afternoon, heavy with heat but softened by the shade of the foliage. Following a forgotten path, I stopped in front of a fallen trunk, which time had slowly drained of its vigor. On its side, like a petrified vestige, stood out a strange gray growth with regular contours. This massive mushroom, firmly anchored to the bark, had all the hallmarks of Fomes fomentarius, better known as the tinder fungus.

Inert and hard as wood, it seemed frozen there forever, halfway between the plant and mineral kingdoms. Once used to light fires—its name comes from the word "amadou," the flammable material extracted from its flesh—it seeks neither to seduce with its color nor its shape, but rather imposes a silent and archaic presence.

Non-toxic according to some sources, but of no culinary interest, the tinder fungus reminds us that not all mushrooms are edible—and that some, like it, tell a story of the forest, of slow decomposition and the memory of wood.

I left it there, an old guardian of the dead trunk, frozen in its muted eternity.