You Step Into the Forest

The moment your foot presses into the moss, the forest reacts.

It is not immediate, not dramatic. The shift is subtle—like the pause between breaths, like a forgotten name echoing in an empty room. But you feel it: the hush that falls, the pressure in the air, the way the trees seem to lean a little closer.

You glance behind you.

There is no path, only a tangle of underbrush so dense it seems ancient. Twisted bramble and pale roots coil through the space where you just stood, as though the forest had grown it over in the instant your eyes turned forward. You know, in a way that does not need explanation, that you could stand there for hours and still never find the place you began. You are not meant to go back. That much is clear.

The silence here is not empty. It hums with something just beneath perception—like breath behind glass, like the memory of music you’re not sure you ever heard. The trees rise tall, impossibly tall, their bark gnarled and wet with moss. Some of them bear hollow knots that gape like eyes, watching. Not with malice. Not with warmth. Just... watching.

Somewhere above, the sky is the color of old paper stained with ash. There is no sun, yet the forest is lit. Light filters down in odd shafts that move with no wind, casting shadows that stretch too long, bend the wrong way, or pause in place after you move. One of them lags behind you before snapping to your heels with a sound like a footstep that wasn’t yours.

You walk because there is nothing else to do. The air grows thicker the deeper you go—not heavy, but meaningful. Each breath tastes faintly of stone and wet leaves. You pass a tree whose bark bears a pattern like a human spine. Another shivers as you approach, shedding petals made of moth wings.

You try to remember your name. Not the one you gave at the edge of the forest, but the one you were born with. It floats just out of reach. Maybe the trees have taken it. Maybe they are keeping it safe. Or maybe they are wearing it now, like a stolen coat.

Then the path splits.

To the left, soft chimes ring—distant, but distinct. They sound like glass and memory, high and sweet, out of place in this soil-thick silence. The scent of lavender and decay rides the air, clinging to your tongue. A warmth pulses faintly from that direction, like the feeling of a childhood home you barely remember.

To the right, the trees grow strange. Trunks twist and bend toward each other in impossible arcs, forming archways like bone and bark cathedrals. The ground glistens wet beneath them. You hear a voice whisper from the dark—it is your voice, though you haven't spoken. It says something you almost remember, but forget the moment you try to hold it.

Straight ahead, the forest thickens. Branches claw across the path like a warning, or a test. There is no sound from that way, only a silence that feels full. Pregnant. A breath held. The narrow trail continues like a scar into the shadows.

You feel the forest leaning in.

Watching.

Waiting.