The Whisper of the Sycamore

I often wonder what it would be like if I died. Would it be a dream I’d never wake from? A haze of colors and memories melting together, where reality no longer mattered? Or would it be something more tangible—a kiss that lingered a little too long, teetering on the edge of comfort until I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to pull away or press in deeper?

The night before last, I heard a whisper from a sycamore tree calling my name. Strange, because I’d never seen a sycamore before. I don’t even know if I’d recognize one if I tried. I imagined it, though—a towering thing with bark that peeled like old wallpaper, shedding its skin to reveal a secret world underneath. Does it bear fruit, I wondered, like the apple trees in those stories? The ones where fruit is never just fruit, and sweetness always has an edge?

Apple pie. I don’t even know if I like it. There’s something insidious about it, the way it coaxes you with its scent—warm, familiar, like a hug from someone you don’t quite trust. The smell alone makes you believe it’s good, even if the taste is cloying, too sweet, too heavy.

Did Eve feel the same way, I wonder? Did she look at the apple and see poison that wasn’t fatal, just slow and patient? Did it call her name like the sycamore called mine, beckoning her with promises so faint she couldn’t tell if they were her own thoughts or something foreign whispering in her ear?

That night, the sycamore was in my dreams. It stood in a field that seemed to stretch endlessly, bathed in twilight. The air smelled faintly of bitter apples, the kind that make your jaw ache when you bite into them. The tree whispered again, but this time the words were clear: Come closer.

I stepped forward, my feet crunching through grass that was too cold, too wet. The tree was enormous, its limbs reaching toward the stars. Bark flaked away like pages of a book I was too afraid to open.

And then I saw it—the fruit. It wasn’t an apple, or maybe it was, but it had been warped into something unfamiliar. Its surface shimmered like glass, and within it, I thought I saw my own reflection. Except it wasn’t me. Not entirely.

I reached out, fingers trembling, and the voice came again: Do you know what you are?

“I don’t,” I whispered back. My voice sounded small, like it wasn’t mine at all.

Then take it. Find out.

I hesitated. The fruit’s scent was overwhelming now, rich and heady, but there was something else beneath it—something acrid, like decay. Still, I plucked it from the branch. It was warm in my hand, pulsing like a heartbeat.

I raised it to my lips.

And then I woke up.

The room was dark, and the air was still. But I swear I could still hear the sycamore whispering, calling my name. And though I couldn’t remember the taste of the fruit, I could feel it lingering on my tongue—a bitterness that wasn’t mine.

P.S. This story was brought to life by a digital imposter with a little help from yours truly— because no one pulls off a plot twist quite like I do.