Forest

Auther Name Asmatullah

The forest had always been there, silent yet alive, stretching farther than the eyes of any villager could reach. To some, it was a place of fear, full of shadows that swallowed men and never returned them. To others, it was a land of wonder, where the trees carried secrets older than human memory. For Arian, a boy of seventeen, the forest was both: danger and dream, fear and freedom.

He lived in a small settlement at the forest’s edge, where the nights were filled with the hoots of owls and the winds that rattled wooden windows. His grandmother often told him stories about the heart of the forest, a place no one dared to enter. “The trees there breathe,” she whispered once, “and if you listen carefully, you will hear their voices. But those voices do not always welcome strangers.”

Curiosity, however, was stronger than warnings. Arian had grown up watching the forest change with every season—its blossoms in spring, its heavy greens in summer, its fiery leaves in autumn, and its icy silence in winter. He felt it call to him, though he could not explain why.

One morning, before the first light touched the sky, Arian packed a small bag with bread, dried fruit, and a flask of water. He carried his father’s old compass and a knife. He did not tell anyone, not even his grandmother, for he feared she would stop him. Quietly, he stepped into the wilderness.

The air grew cooler as he walked beneath the towering trees. The sun’s light scattered in pieces across the forest floor, as though the leaves were trying to keep the secrets hidden. Birds darted from branch to branch, their songs rising and falling like waves. The smell of earth and moss filled his lungs. It was different from the air of the village—denser, deeper, alive.

Hours passed, yet he felt no hunger or thirst. The forest seemed to feed him in ways he did not understand. He followed the faint sound of water until he reached a stream, its surface clear enough to mirror the sky. Kneeling beside it, he dipped his hand in, and the cold shocked him awake. That was when he heard it: a whisper, soft as the rustling of leaves, but unmistakable.

“Arian…”

He froze. His name, spoken where no human stood. He turned quickly, but there was no one behind him. Only the trees, tall and still, as if watching him with unseen eyes. His heart raced. Perhaps it was only his imagination. But then, again, the voice came—gentle, almost kind.

“Why do you come?”

He wanted to run. Yet something stronger than fear kept him rooted. “I… I wanted to know what lies within,” he whispered, almost ashamed.

The leaves trembled though there was no wind. The forest seemed to breathe around him. “Then walk deeper,” the voice replied, “but know that knowledge comes with cost.”

Arian’s steps carried him farther, past roots that twisted like sleeping serpents, past stones carved with shapes he could not recognize. The deeper he went, the stranger it became. Light faded, though the sky was still bright above. Colors shifted—greens darker, shadows longer, air heavier. He felt as if the forest was folding around him, guiding him toward something.

At last, he came to a clearing. In its center stood a single tree, taller and older than any he had ever seen. Its bark was silver, its leaves shimmering as though made of glass. Around it, the ground was covered in flowers glowing faintly, their light pulsing like heartbeats.

He approached with awe. As he laid his hand on the bark, warmth spread through him. Suddenly, images filled his mind: rivers flowing like veins through the earth, animals moving in silent patterns, roots stretching endlessly beneath soil. The forest was showing him its soul.

He saw hunters cutting trees, fires consuming acres, rivers poisoned by careless hands. The pain of the forest throbbed inside him. Yet he also saw harmony—villagers planting seeds, children playing under branches, healers gathering herbs with care.

The voice spoke again, but now it was not from outside—it came from within his chest.

“You are part of us, as we are part of you. Protect us, and we will protect you. Harm us, and the wilderness will one day reclaim what it has lost.”

Tears blurred Arian’s vision. He understood now why so many feared this place—it was alive, far beyond human comprehension. The forest was no silent backdrop; it was a breathing, feeling world.

He promised silently: I will protect you.

When he opened his eyes, the clearing was empty. The silver tree was gone. The flowers had vanished. Only a circle of ordinary grass remained. Had it been a dream? No—the warmth in his chest was real. The forest had chosen him, or perhaps, revealed itself to him.

By the time Arian returned to the village, the sun was setting. His grandmother waited at the door, eyes filled with both worry and knowing. She did not scold him. Instead, she touched his shoulder and said, “You heard them, didn’t you?”

He nodded, unable to speak.

From that day forward, Arian lived differently. He watched how his people treated the land. He guided them to cut only what they needed, to plant where they had taken, to walk with respect. Some mocked him, others listened. Slowly, the village changed. The soil grew richer, the rivers clearer, the animals more abundant.

Yet Arian knew his task was endless. For every person who listened, there would be another who would not. But he carried the whispers of the hidden wilderness in his heart. And whenever he closed his eyes at night, he could still feel the breath of the forest, alive within him, reminding him of his promise.

The forest was no longer just trees and shadows—it was a guardian, a teacher, a living memory. And he, in return, became its voice.