Letters to a Burned Forest
A teenager writes letters to the trees destroyed in a wildfire that swept through their childhood forest, reflecting on loss, guilt, and the desperate hope that regeneration will come in time.
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Letters to a Burned Forest
The first time Maya stood at the edge of the burned forest, she couldn’t breathe.
The air, heavy with ash even months after the fire, felt too thick for her lungs. Blackened trees stretched like skeletons into the sky, their charred limbs twisted in frozen agony. She clutched her old, worn notebook to her chest — the one she used to bring on hikes to sketch leaves or write little poems about the wind — and tried not to cry.
She wasn’t sure why she’d come.
Her parents were busy packing up the house. They’d decided to leave town, start fresh somewhere else. “There’s nothing left here,” her father had said, avoiding her eyes. But for Maya, the forest had always been *everything*.
She sat on a scorched log and opened the notebook. Her hands trembled as she put pen to paper.
---
**Dear Trees,**
I’m sorry.
I know that sounds stupid, but I don’t know what else to say. I miss you. I miss your shade, your smell, the way your branches danced when the wind sang through them. I miss the animals that used to live in you, the mushrooms that clung to your roots, the quiet.
When the fires came, we ran. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
They say the fire was worse because of the drought. Because it’s been hotter and drier every year. Because people like us kept pretending the earth would be fine if we just ignored the warnings.
I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix *you*.
Love,
Maya
---
She tore the letter out, folded it carefully, and placed it in the hollow of a broken stump.
It felt silly — childish, even. But she couldn’t just *leave*. Not yet.
---
Maya came back the next day. And the next. Each time, she wrote another letter.
---
**Dear Forest,**
Do you remember when I fell and scraped my knee on the rocks by the stream? I was nine, and I was sure I was going to die. But you were there, wrapping me in green, cradling me in your cool shade. I sat with my back against your roots until I stopped crying.
You’ve always been here for me.
Why couldn’t I be here for you?
Love,
Maya
---
The ground crunched under her boots as she walked. The ash clung to everything, smudging her fingers, her jeans, even the pages of her notebook.
She noticed little things: a single sprout poking through the gray. A beetle crawling over blackened bark. The faintest sound of birds returning.
Hope was sneaky like that — it slipped in when she wasn’t looking.
---
One day, Maya’s friend Lena came with her.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Lena whispered, hugging herself. “It’s like a graveyard.”
Maya nodded. She understood. But for her, it wasn’t just a graveyard. It was a memory. It was a *promise*.
---
**Dear Ashes,**
You’re not just what’s left. You’re what’s *waiting*.
Waiting for rain.
Waiting for seeds.
Waiting for us to care again.
I want to believe you can come back. Please tell me I’m not too late.
Love,
Maya
---
Weeks passed. Maya heard from her parents that the town was organizing a replanting effort. Volunteers were gathering saplings, planning to restore what they could.
She didn’t tell anyone, but she went early — before the others arrived.
She knelt by the old stump where she’d left her letters. The last one trembled in her hand as she read it aloud, her voice shaking.
---
**Dear Forest,**
I don’t know if you can hear me.
I don’t know if I deserve your forgiveness.
But I love you.
I love you even when you’re blackened and broken.
I love you even when I’m scared you’ll never be whole again.
I’m going to help. Even if it’s just one tree at a time.
Love,
Maya
---
She folded the letter carefully, pressed it to her lips for a moment, and then buried it under the soft soil where a new sapling would soon take root.
When the other volunteers arrived, they found her already digging.
Maya worked until her arms ached, her face streaked with dirt and tears. She planted tiny trees, one after another, whispering small hopes under her breath. She imagined the letters buried beneath the soil, feeding the roots with her promises.
---
That night, Maya stood at the edge of the forest, looking back one last time.
The landscape was still scarred. It would take years — maybe longer — for it to heal. But now, scattered among the blackened trunks, there were splashes of green. Little reminders that the forest wasn’t gone; it was *beginning again*.
She closed her eyes, listening.
For a moment, she thought she heard it: the whisper of wind in young leaves, the soft hum of life returning.
She smiled, the first real smile in months.
---
**Dear Future Forest,**
I can’t wait to meet you.
Love,
Maya
---
### **THE END**
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Let me know if you want me to expand this into a longer piece or write it in a specific tone — like more poetic, more tragic, or more hopeful. Would you like me to draft a follow-up chapter where she comes back years later? 🌱
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Comments (1)
This is so touching. It makes me think about how we often take nature for granted. I've seen forests change due to human neglect. It's sad. Do you think Maya's letters will make a difference? Or is it just a way for her to cope with the loss?