Roots of the Forgotten

The people of Eldergrove whispered of a forest that had once been alive with song—birdsong, laughter, and the voices of a civilization long buried beneath the moss-covered earth. But now, only trees remained—tall, ancient, gnarled, and watchful.

To most, the forest was simply that: old trees and cold silence. But to those who still remembered the stories—those whispered by grandmothers with failing voices and fading eyes—it was the resting place of something deeper, something that pulsed in the roots and sighed in the wind.

Lyra had grown up on the edge of this forgotten wood, in a cottage where ivy climbed the stone walls and the smell of herbs filled the air. Her grandmother, Maret, had warned her never to wander too far past the silver birch at the forest's edge. “The trees beyond that line remember,” she had said. “And memory is dangerous when it is left to rot.”

But Lyra had always been curious. And now, at nineteen, with her grandmother buried beneath the very birch tree she had once called guardian, Lyra felt the pull of the forest more strongly than ever.

It began with a dream. The roots of trees, moving like serpents. A voice, deep and ancient, whispering her name through soil and shadow. Then came the day her reflection disappeared from the mirror. Not permanently—just fleetingly, when she wasn’t looking directly. A blink, a shift, and for a moment, the girl staring back at her had eyes that glowed faintly green, like moss lit from within.

Lyra packed a small satchel: dried fruit, a waterskin, her grandmother’s bone-handled knife, and a journal filled with Maret’s forest sketches and half-finished notes. Then she passed the birch tree and stepped into the deeper wood.

The light changed immediately. Sunlight struggled to pierce the thick canopy. The air was cooler, damper, and the silence felt thick, as though the very ground held its breath.

Hours passed. Or perhaps minutes—it was impossible to tell. Time in Eldergrove was a strange thing. Lyra followed deer paths and root-knotted trails until she came to a clearing she had never seen before.

In the center stood an enormous tree. Its bark was blackened, not by fire, but by age. Its roots sprawled like a spider’s legs, wrapping around stone fragments half-swallowed by the earth—ruins. Pillars, an altar, perhaps even a statue, now eroded into suggestion. Moss clung to every surface. And in the middle of it all, a shallow pool shimmered with dark water.

Lyra knelt at the edge of the pool. Her reflection stared back—her own face, but not as she knew it. Her hair was streaked with silver. Her eyes glowed faintly green.

“You have come,” said a voice behind her.

Lyra spun, knife in hand, but no one stood there.

“Do not fear,” the voice said again, this time from the roots of the tree. “We remember you.”

The roots shifted, curling slightly inward, revealing a hollow beneath the tree’s trunk. Something inside pulsed with a soft light—green and gold. Lyra stepped forward, heart pounding. She could feel the hum of memory around her, deep as the ocean, old as bone.

“What are you?” she asked aloud.

“We are what remains,” the voice replied. “Of those who were forgotten. Of those who were buried without names, their souls tied to the soil, their memories devoured by silence.”

And then it came—flooding her mind all at once.

Visions. A great city once stood here, carved from stone and root, grown from harmony between people and forest. A pact had been made: the trees would guard their knowledge, and the people would live in balance. But greed had come, as it always does. The pact was broken. The roots devoured the city to preserve its memory. And those who remained became one with the trees.

The people of Eldergrove had descended from survivors, but they had forgotten who they were.

“You are her blood,” the voice said gently. “Maret was the last of the Rememberers. And now you are the seed she planted.”

Lyra fell to her knees, overwhelmed.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered.

“To remember. To reawaken what was lost. To root yourself in what once was and bloom into what must be.”

From the hollow, the light grew brighter. Lyra reached forward and touched it.

Pain seared through her fingertips—but with it came knowledge. Songs in a language she did not know she knew. Names of trees that had no common word. The ability to hear the thoughts of roots and the warnings in the rustling of leaves. She saw the faces of those long gone. She felt their grief, their hope.

When she opened her eyes again, the clearing was brighter. The tree’s bark had lightened. Flowers bloomed at its roots.

Lyra stood.

She was no longer just a girl from the edge of a village. She was a bridge between memory and future. The forest had made its choice.

And from that day forward, the Moonroot tree in the clearing began to grow again—taller, stronger. The thicket whispered her name not in fear, but in reverence.

And Eldergrove remembered.