Whispers of the Wildwood

The Wildwood had no marked paths. No signs. No welcoming gates. Just the hush of green shadows and the low murmur of leaves that spoke only to those who dared to listen.

Eira knew better than to wander past the tree line. The stories her grandmother told were never meant to be fairy tales. “The Wildwood hears everything,” she'd whisper, voice dry like crackling pine. “It remembers. It watches. And sometimes…it answers.”

But the pull was too strong.

After her grandmother’s funeral, with the scent of lavender and dried sage still clinging to her sleeves, Eira stepped through the veil of mist that clung to the forest like breath on glass. Behind her, the village bells tolled a final farewell. Ahead, the forest exhaled.

She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to go. Grief has its own language, and hers was leading her here—to the place that had haunted and comforted her dreams since childhood. A place her grandmother spoke of with reverence and fear.

The forest welcomed her in strange silence. Every crunch of her boots against fallen leaves felt intrusive, like stepping on someone’s prayer. The trees were impossibly tall, their limbs tangled in secrets. Moss blanketed the roots like old wool, and somewhere above, unseen birds murmured warnings in the canopy.

Hours passed—or maybe just minutes. Time in the Wildwood had its own rhythm.

Then, she heard it: a whisper.

Not the wind. Not an echo.

A whisper.

Soft. Layered. Like dozens of voices saying her name, just under the breath of the forest.

“Eira…”

She stopped, every hair on her body rising. She turned, but no one stood behind her. Still, the whisper came again, clearer now, almost warm: “Come home.”

She pressed on.

The trees grew denser, darker. Light filtered through in slivers, like blades. But Eira didn’t feel afraid—only drawn forward, as if the forest itself had hands that gently guided her shoulders.

And then she saw it.

A clearing.

In the center stood a tree—unlike any she’d ever seen. It towered above the rest, wide and gnarled, with bark the color of ash and leaves the color of flame. But it wasn’t fire that made them glow. It was something older.

She stepped closer. Beneath the great tree, the ground was blanketed in wildflowers, all blooming in a ring. In the center sat a stone. Upon it, a carving.

Her grandmother’s name.

Eira’s breath caught. She dropped to her knees, brushing away fallen petals. The carving was fresh—too fresh. It hadn’t been there days ago.

Another whisper, this time at her ear.

“She returned. So must you.”

She looked up. Across the clearing stood a woman, veiled in mist and green robes threaded with ivy. Her eyes shimmered like dew and bark, old and kind and watchful.

“You knew her,” Eira whispered.

“She was one of us, once. Before she left the path.”

Eira's heart pounded. “One of what?”

“The Tenders of the Whispering Grove. The guardians of what the world has forgotten. Keepers of stories not written in books, but in bark and root and song.”

The forest trembled around her, not with threat, but with memory. And in a flash, Eira saw it all—her grandmother, younger, dancing beneath this tree, her voice blending with the rustle of leaves. The same tree she now knelt before. The same ring of flowers.

“She never told me,” Eira whispered.

“She did,” the woman replied. “You just didn’t hear her yet.”

A hush fell, like the world taking a breath.

Then the woman spoke again. “The Wildwood has chosen you, child of its blood. Will you walk the path left for you?”

Eira looked down at the stone, then up at the burning leaves.

“I don’t know how.”

“You do,” the woman said, and with a rustle of leaves, she was gone.

The clearing fell silent once more—but something had shifted. The whispers no longer came from around her. They came from within her.

A warmth spread through her chest. Her grief softened, transformed, as though the forest had reached into her pain and rewritten it with purpose.

Eira stood.

She understood now: this forest wasn’t a place to be feared. It was a place to remember. A place where the old magic still breathed, just beneath the soil, waiting for someone to tend to it.

And she would be its keeper.

She turned back to the path that no longer looked like a path at all—but the forest knew her now. It whispered her name with welcome.

That night, the villagers noticed something strange. From the edge of the Wildwood, where the mist never lifted, came a soft hum—a lullaby of leaves, wind, and ancient promise.

Some said it was only the wind.

But the old ones knew better.

The Wildwood was awake again.

And it was whispering.