You Leave the Path to Follow the Chimes

You approach the tree as though answering a call you can’t quite hear. Its roots curl from the earth like fingers, reaching for you—part invitation, part warning. Between them yawns a narrow split in the trunk, just wide enough for you to slip through. Silver bells dangle from the lower branches, their chimes delicate and irregular, as if the tree is breathing through sound.

You step inside.

The air is different here—cooler, thicker. The tree’s heart is hollow, spiraling downward. Its roots have grown into a kind of staircase, not tangled but intentional, as though shaped by unseen hands. The bark along the walls is rough and ridged, catching drifts of catkins, pale dust, and long-dead bits of things no one bothered to remember. Mushrooms sprout along the spiral in clusters, glowing faintly green. The light is soft, but it touches everything—your face, your breath, your thoughts.

Behind you, the bells ring again. You hesitate. Then you descend.

A flicker of black wings cuts through the gloom—ravens, silent and fast, keeping pace with your steps. They don’t caw or speak, but you get the sense that they’re watching. Guiding. Or waiting.

Beneath the sound of your footsteps, you hear the scratch and scurry of hidden things moving in the walls. You don’t see them, but you feel their small eyes on you. The stair turns into a tunnel, narrowing slightly. Dampness beads on the walls. The scent of river water grows stronger with every breath.

Then, without fanfare, the tunnel ends.

You step out into a vast hollow, and the world changes.

A river runs silently through the chamber, its waters faintly luminous. Moss glows on the ceiling like constellations in a world without sky. Reeds sway at the banks, though there is no wind. The ravens swim through the river as though it were air, gliding beneath the surface without effort or confusion.

You stare.

It isn’t right. None of it is.

You listen. Somewhere deep in the forest, bells ring again—layered and distant, like laughter echoing through a dream. You can’t tell if it’s joyful or cruel.

I can do this, you tell yourself.

You sit on the edge of the wooden bank. Your feet touch the water—it’s warm. Almost too warm. You slide in slowly, the current wrapping around you like a story that already knows the ending.

The ravens swim beside you, weaving through suspended roots and shoals of flashing silver things. Their wings don’t falter. They belong here. You’re not sure if you do.

The river shallows. You wade toward the shore, dripping and dazed. A meadow unfolds beyond it, a space of strange calm nestled between forest and water. Light slants down in soft sheets, though the sky remains colorless and dull.

How can this fit inside a tree? you wonder. Is this still the same world?

The ravens rise behind you, shedding water as they fly. One croaks—a broken, echoing sound—as they disappear into the trees.

You crouch at the river’s edge, breathing hard. Your pack is soaked. You hope the contents survived.

Then you hear a rustle behind you.

A great silver bear steps from the forest.

It moves with slow, deliberate grace, barely sparing you a glance. It reaches the river, dips one massive paw into the water.

The current rises—not violently, but with a smooth, unnatural rush—and folds over it like silk.

When the creature steps back, it is no longer a bear.

It is a man.

He kneels by the bank, gathering stones, smooth and wet. One by one, he lays them in a circle.

Then he sits in its center.

And watches you.

"Come sit with me," he says as he reaches a hand out to you.