jane smith

The Whispering Pines

It was the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, thick and suffocating. The forest stood still, as if it were holding its breath, watching, waiting. That was how Emily felt the moment she stepped into the clearing, her boots sinking into the wet soil, the mist swirling around her legs like ghosts of the past. She had always been drawn to this place—the dense pines that seemed to stretch endlessly into the fog. But tonight, something was different. Tonight, the forest was alive in a way she had never felt before.