Strigen’s Forest

Strigen’s Forest

rigen’s ForestSometime in the hereafter, in a kingdom once ruled by laughter, a deep fog crawled through the valleys and over the hills, covering the land like a forgotten spell. No one quite remembered when it arrived. Some whispered it came with the death of the last Muse; others said it was born from the sighs of abandoned stories.

But everyone knew the same thing: Strigen’s Forest was the heart of it.

Once, it had been a vibrant glade — a sanctuary for artists, musicians, poets, and dreamers. Children played among glowing mushrooms and trees that whispered lullabies. The trees bore fruit shaped like instruments, and rivers hummed lullabies in every tongue.

But that was long ago.

Now, Strigen’s Forest stood in silence. No bird sang. No river danced. And no human dared enter.

Except for Liora.

She was twelve, or maybe thirteen. Her mother had stopped counting birthdays after the sky lost its color. People no longer smiled. Her village was gray — not because of the weather, but because of fear. Fear of laughter. Fear of being seen dreaming. Fear of Strigen’s Forest.

They said anyone who went in never came back.

But Liora had a reason to go.

Her brother Finn, the last child in the village who told stories, had vanished two weeks ago — last seen walking toward the edge of the forest with a pencil and a notebook.

“Strigen calls to the bright ones,” the villagers muttered. “It feeds on those who remember color.”

But Liora was not afraid. Not because she was brave — but because she still remembered how Finn’s stories made the cold mornings warmer.

So she packed a bag with nothing but a flickering lantern, a pencil, and her own notebook — blank but hopeful — and stepped into Strigen’s Forest.

The forest greeted her with silence.

Not the kind of silence you hear when everyone’s asleep, but a heavy silence — thick and sticky, like syrup made of fear. The trees were tall and dark, their bark blackened like burned pages. Roots twisted like fingers, and the ground sighed beneath her boots.

As she walked, she noticed shapes in the bark — eyes, perhaps. Or maybe memories trying to crawl free.

She whispered to herself to stay calm. And when that didn’t work, she did what Finn always did.

She told a story.

“There was once a girl who walked into the forest of silence,” she said aloud, “but she carried with her the last ember of a forgotten flame…”

A soft wind stirred. Leaves rustled.

She walked deeper.

Suddenly, she saw it — a shadow darting between trees. It was not human. It was not animal. It was something else entirely. A creature shaped like spilled ink with no face, no limbs — just a smear of darkness that twitched and slithered.

“Who walks here?” it rasped.

Liora trembled, but kept her voice steady. “I’m here for my brother.”

“There are no brothers in the forest. Only forgotten names and swallowed dreams.”

Her grip tightened on the lantern. “Then I’ll find his dream and bring it back.”

The creature hissed and vanished.

She pressed on.

Hours — or maybe days — passed. Time didn’t matter here. Her lantern dimmed. She was growing tired. But then she found it.

A tree in the center of the forest.

Unlike the others, this one was made of paper — stacked scrolls and books twisted into trunk and branch. At its roots lay a hundred notebooks, open and weathered. Each page was filled with sketches, poems, riddles, laughter frozen in ink.

And there — pinned between two pages — was Finn’s notebook.

She knelt beside it and flipped it open.

The pages were blank.

All except the last one. A single line:

“Liora, if you’ve come this far, then write. Only your words can break the silence.”

She looked up. The shadow-creatures had gathered. A circle of living fear, surrounding the tree.

She turned the page and began to write.

“There was once a boy who vanished into a forest swallowed by sorrow. But his sister followed, carrying a light born not of fire, but of memory…”

As she wrote, the lantern brightened.

“The forest tried to silence her, but she knew the truth — stories don’t die unless we forget them…”

The tree of books began to glow. The shadows hissed and writhed.

“…and in her hands, every word was a key.”

The creatures screamed, then shattered like glass.

When she stepped out of Strigen’s Forest at dawn, the village watched in awe.

Behind her, the fog thinned. Light pierced the trees. Birds returned, one by one. And from the edge of the forest, a boy stepped forward — notebook in hand, smile wide.

Finn had returned.

That day, laughter echoed through the valley for the first time in years.

And in the center of Strigen’s Forest, a new tree began to grow — made not of paper, but of courage and memory.