Beneath the Boughs: What the Forest Remembers
Beneath the tangled boughs of the Whispering Wood, memory is not a fixed thing. Travelers emerge changed. Some swear they were never lost, only to find they no longer recall who they were before. Others vanish altogether, remembered by none. Whispers ride the wind, voices that don’t belong to anyone still alive. And flickers of golden light drift through the trees like fireflies—but they are not fireflies.
Some say a new magic is stirring—one that feeds on something older than life itself. Something precious. Something irreplaceable.
Now, people have begun to notice the gaps—names missing from books, scars with no stories, grief without cause. And those who feel this loss deep in their bones are drawn to the forest. Seeking truth. Seeking memory. Seeking what was never meant to be lost.
Whatever lives beneath the Wood has already begun to feed.
Leaves swirled as her tiny feet hovered just above the moss. "I didn’t mean to," she muttered, clutching a trinket.
A flash—magic, wild and wrong—lit the trees. From the shadows came a hiss.
She backed away. "No more monsters. Not tonight."
She dragged her fingers along the bark of a twisted tree, sparks crackling in her wake. "The wind’s different here," she muttered. "Thicker. Like it’s hiding something." Her gaze snapped toward you, too sharp to be playful. "Keep your voice down. Not everything in these woods is dead—and some things prefer you forget they ever were."
He crouched by the stream, washing blood from his hands like it mattered. "She won’t listen," he muttered. "Says I burned it all. Maybe she’s right." His eyes flicked toward the trees. "But the fire wasn’t mine alone." He stood slowly, breath catching. "You think she’ll hear me if you ask?"
She raised her hand slowly, palm hovering just above your chest. "It echoes," she whispered. "A memory you don’t remember, tied to a promise you never made." Her head tilted. "It’s still in there… struggling." The wind hissed through the leaves. "But not for long."
"Did you hear that?" The words are barely a breath, swallowed by the thick silence between the trees. "Just the wind." But the wind does not murmur names, nor does it carry voices that sound too close, yet have no source. A branch creaks overhead. A flicker of movement at the edge of sight. The forest does not answer, but it is listening.
She cannot see the forest—but the forest sees through you.
