Echoes of the Earth

The first time Evelyn heard the whisper, she thought it was the wind.

She had been sitting by the old willow near the edge of the forest — her usual place of quiet since she’d moved into the countryside cottage two months ago.

The willow stood alone, ancient and wide, its roots curling deep into the damp soil like old fingers gripping secrets. Evelyn often came here with her notebook, hoping the stillness would quiet her thoughts.

But that morning, the silence was heavy — too heavy. The air hung thick, and even the birds had gone quiet.

Then she heard it — a faint, almost human sigh.

At first, she ignored it. Trees creaked, leaves rustled, the world made noises all the time. But then it came again.

“Evelyn…”

Her heart froze.

The voice wasn’t loud — it was soft, drawn out, like the last breath of something tired. She looked around. Nothing. Just the willow’s drooping branches swaying gently in the wind.

Evelyn told herself she was imagining things. Since her husband’s passing, her mind had often played tricks — turning loneliness into whispers, silence into sound.

She closed her notebook, stood, and left the clearing.

The next morning, she returned.

She couldn’t stay away. Something about the willow called to her — not in fear, but in strange familiarity.

She sat again beneath its branches, the roots cool beneath her palms. “You’re just a tree,” she murmured.

And then the air trembled.

A voice — lighter this time — drifted through the leaves.

“Not just a tree… you promised.”

Evelyn gasped and stumbled back. The roots seemed to shift under her, almost breathing.

Promised? She had made no promise. Not to this. Not to anyone.

But then — a flash of memory.

Her husband, James, always loved the woods. He had wanted his ashes scattered here, beneath “the oldest tree in sight.” Evelyn had done that, months ago. Beneath this very willow.

Her pulse quickened. “James?” she whispered, half hoping, half terrified.

The branches rustled — slowly, as if nodding.

“Stay.”

She ran.

For days, Evelyn avoided the forest. But the nights became unbearable. The whisper came through the walls — soft, weeping, begging her to return.

Sometimes she heard her name, other times just sighs.

Sleep became a stranger.

By the seventh night, she broke.

Carrying a lantern, she went back. The willow waited, its drooping limbs motionless against a windless sky.

The moment she stepped beneath its shade, the whisper returned — clearer, almost warm.

“You left me cold… don’t leave me again.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “James, is it you?”

“It’s what’s left.”

The ground shivered beneath her.

And then she saw it — faint handprints forming in the soil near the roots. They pressed upward, reaching, trembling.

Her lantern flickered, casting shadows that moved like breaths.

“Stop!” she screamed. “Please—”

“You promised you’d stay.”

Her knees gave way. The air felt thick as water. The willow’s roots pulsed, wrapping faintly around her ankles — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold her.

“Stay with me, Evelyn. In the earth. Beneath the roots. Like we were meant to.”

She sobbed. “I can’t. I’m still alive.”

The whisper turned cold.

“Then live… alone.”

The roots loosened. The whisper faded. The forest fell silent again.

When the villagers found her days later, she was sitting at the base of the willow, pale and trembling but alive.

She couldn’t speak at first — only stare at the bark as if it might open its eyes.

After that night, Evelyn never returned to the clearing. But those who walked past sometimes said they saw her silhouette there at dawn — sitting quietly beneath the branches, whispering to someone unseen.

And some nights, if the wind was just right, the willow sighed her name back.