“The Last Forest: A Letter to the Future”

📝 Blurb (Story Description):

In a world where forests are legends and sunlight filters through synthetic skies, a young girl named Aira discovers an ancient notebook left by her grandmother — a tree guardian from a forgotten time. As she writes a letter to the future, Aira must choose whether to accept the artificial life she was born into or plant the final seed of hope. A poetic tale of memory, climate grief, and the quiet power of a single act.

Story

My name is Aira, and I am twelve years old.
I live in what was once called the Greenbelt—a place of trees, wind, birds, and stories whispered through leaves.
Now, people call it Zone W-13.

There are no birds anymore.

I found this notebook buried beneath roots while we were clearing the last patch of forest to make space for the solar archive towers. My father says progress is good. My mother says silence is safer.

But this notebook was wrapped in old leaves and cloth. Someone had hidden it, like a secret.
Inside, it said:

> “If you find this, you are the last. Remember us. Remember the forest.”

So, I decided to write back.


---

When I was younger—maybe six or seven—my grandmother told me about trees that could live a thousand years.
She said the oldest ones were called “Mother Trees” because they fed other trees underground.

At the time, I laughed. “That’s just a fairy tale.”

But her eyes were serious.

“No, child. Trees speak in silence. Just because we stopped listening doesn’t mean they stopped talking.”

I didn’t believe her.

Now, I wonder.


---

The government drones came two weeks ago. They flew low, scanning every tree. We were told to leave our home for three days while “cleansing” took place. When we returned, the air smelled like plastic and ash. Every tree was tagged—some were marked red. That meant they were dying, or dangerous, or useless. I’m not sure which.

We cut them all down anyway.

Today, I saw my father cry for the first time.

He was holding a bird’s nest in his hands, brittle and broken. There were no eggs, just feathers and silence.

He didn't say a word. He just stood there, staring at it, before gently placing it under the roots of the last uncut tree—an old mahua, bent like a grandmother bowing.

I wanted to tell him that I saw it too: the way the tree trembled, as if it were saying goodbye.


---

My school used to teach "Environmental History," but it was removed from the curriculum last year. Now we study “Planetary Development and Artificial Biomes.” They say we’ll live on floating cities one day. That Earth is just a base now.

But last week, our teacher forgot to close a file on her tablet. I peeked.
It showed a photo of a giant tree so wide ten people could wrap their arms around it. There were children running under it, and animals that didn’t even look real.
I searched the name online: Baobab.
But the link was blocked.

Still, I printed the photo on forbidden paper and taped it inside my locker.

Hope is a kind of rebellion now.


---

My friend Ishan says I’m a “nature romantic.” He jokes that I’ll end up living in a dirt hut. Maybe he’s right. But yesterday, he handed me a flower—a real one. Not printed. Not grown in a dome.
A wildflower.

“How did you—?”

He didn’t answer. He just smiled and said, “Hide it.”

I pressed it between the pages of this notebook. It’s still there.
Dry, but beautiful.


---

The mahua tree—the last one—is being cut tomorrow.
The workers say it has no use. No yield. No fruit.
But I know that’s not true. My grandmother once made sweets from its flowers. She said they helped people remember.

Maybe that’s why they want it gone.


---

So tonight, I took something.
A single seed.

I dug under the tree when no one was watching. It was hard, and the soil was dry, but I found it—small, wrinkled, full of quiet power.

I wrapped it in the same cloth that covered this notebook and whispered:

“I’ll plant you again. Somewhere they can’t find us.”


---

If you're reading this in a future I can’t imagine, maybe you found the seed.
Maybe the forest is returning.

Maybe the birds have come home.

If they have—please, don’t forget us.
We were here.
We loved the Earth.
We tried to remember.

And now, it’s your turn.


---

– Aira
Daughter of trees. Dreamer of green.

By [M.Sudais]

#Sustainability
#ClimateChange
#EnvironmentalFiction
#FutureGenerations
#NatureWriting
#HopeInDarkness
#ClimateAction